Grand Master
by emmish
Summary: Sherlock has ceased trying to battle his urges. Instead, he has mastered them. Eventual JohnLock! Co-written with SnowCrazy15. *Sequel in Progress!*
1. Chapter 1

John was nothing if not practical. Some people would even say 'frugal.' He had come home from his half-day at the practice thirty minutes ago to find that his flatmate had turned the heating up very high, and then opened all the windows wide to regulate the temperature. The result was a dizzying, sickly heat interspersed with freezing, lip-numbing January gusts, and a suspiciously absentee detective.

Promptly, and with only the minimum required amount of quiet grumbling, John turned down the heat, closed the windows, and settled himself in his armchair. He was armed with a cup of tea in his extra-big mug, a knitted blanket from Mrs. Hudson around his shoulders, and his new letter-writing set, which he intended to make use of (if he could remember how to write a letter, that is).

The set had been given to him by Sherlock some weeks ago. He had wondered incessantly about where it had been bought from, until Sherlock told him glibly that he had lifted it from a client's drawing room. ("You know, that one whose face looked like that Dali painting where everything's melting.")

John had suitably reprimanded him, but softened when Sherlock insisted that he thought John would appreciate it more than Dali-face. John had reprimanded him again.

He couldn't hold the grudge very long though, because it was Sherlock, and for the man to even think of him briefly – if only to steal in his name – it was surprisingly thoughtful.

He took another lingering sip from his gigantic mug and set it aside, bringing his attention back to the little set nestled on his lap. The notepad seemed to be the main feature, the paper made to look like old parchment, with matching envelopes and a gold pen. It was all quite posh, for his standards, and the pen alone looked like it could have funded their fridge for a good week.

He set the envelopes next to his mug and twisted the lid of the pen, cocking his head as he tried to remember how he'd been taught to write a 'proper' letter. His address was supposed to be in it somewhere, right? To the left? No, that didn't seem right. To the right, then? It must be. And was he supposed to double or singularly space his sentences? John found himself frowning at the paper before the real question of _who am I writing this to_? stood prominent in his thoughts. That was a very good bloody question. He let out a heavy rush of breath before the notepad joined the envelopes to the side and his mug was once again resting firmly in his grip.

He had stayed friends with Clara after her divorce from his sister, and despite Sherlock's early innuendos, he had never been attracted to her. Now that she was living in Scotland with her new partner, it might be an idea to send her something a bit more thoughtful than an occasional text. He wasn't sure who else he knew to write to who wouldn't mock him for his quaint communication - but then again, people seemed to scoff at his technological acumen too. He couldn't win.

He would have to google it later. He _could_ ask his flatmate, who would either be completely oblivious to the notion of writing letters, or be insufferably, public-school perfect at it. Sherlock wouldn't mock him, but John really hated being reminded of the things that separated him and Sherlock. In many ways they were identical, but in others, the gulf between them was vast.

He could almost see Sherlock's face now. The slight shift of his head, the way those eyes would look at him as if he were picking out the individual thoughts floating around his brain. He would want to know why John was writing a letter, either that or he would just ignore him completely. Always one extreme to the other with that man.

It only made the gulf seem wider. Sometimes he really had to question his own sanity when it came to Sherlock Holmes. He was the embodiment of the bizarre, with ultimate knowledge of one thing, and absolutely squat in others. He was a genius, but that intelligence was completely selective.

Just as John took another sip of his tea, he found himself shaking his head. Of course his thoughts would wander to his flatmate. If it wasn't for a letter, it would be for an action, or a reaction, or an insult. Any train of thought would end up backlogging all the way to the detective and John would be left continuously questioning himself and the reasons he was still sat in 221B.

His eyes flickered back to the notepad and he sighed, deciding that Clara would have to be his first option, because she was the only option he could think of right now.

The voice in his head that chastised him for being indecisive even with only one option before him, had, at some point, become Sherlock's. His flatmate had told him once that his own equivalent was Mycroft's sarcastic monologue that echoed in his Mind Palace through a separate sound system, with hidden loudspeakers, that he hadn't figured out how to disable yet.

He found himself smirking at that, because Mycroft's mere existence irked his friend, never mind always having that nasally drawl pounding through the halls without any hope of escape. He liked to think that he could understand the foundations for Sherlock's Mind Palace by now. Or he'd at least figured out a rough draft of what it could be.

John always imagined it would be a grand, sweeping palace, with rooms and doors and corridors draped in the finest silks. The most useful information would be stored in the biggest, most dramatic rooms, while the 'useless' information (like the name of the Prime Minister) would be shoved in a cupboard to the back. Either that, or it was something far more complicated that John probably wouldn't understand. He wouldn't ask, either, because it seemed the detective liked nothing more than comparing his own vast intellect to the apparent lack thereof where John was concerned.

He was just drifting out of his reverie, brought to alertness by the abrupt appearance of fat white snowflakes outside their grubby window (the size of the fingerprints on it suggested a certain detective's prior presence. Damn it Sherlock).

Feeling oddly content and languid, he was about to have another stab at letter-writing, when the peculiar and slightly-annoying rhythmic noise that had been going on for a few minutes, stopped. Only in its absence did he ponder whether there was some building work going on somewhere, but it sounded more...domestic than that. It began again, and he finally paid it his full attention.

The sound was low, could have been a humming if not for the slight hitch here and there. He moved himself forward, frowning as he focused. He realised all too quickly that the sound, now spiking in pitch, was being made by a human. Since there shouldn't have been anyone inside the flat besides the two people who paid the rent, John had to conclude it was Sherlock. Which only made his frown deepen. He was about to call out when something in the sound seemed to shift, and it started again. Louder, this time.

When he recognised, or _thought_ he recognised, something...carnal? in the faint , rumbly noise, he felt a little sheepish that the first thing he assumed that was it couldn't be Sherlock after all.

 _Why_ shouldn't it be Sherlock? He was a grown man, why shouldn't he be...doing stuff like that in his own room? His curiosity was justifiably stronger than his shame at listening more intently. Anyway, he told himself, it could _still_ be some burglar, who broke in during the morning to...have sex in Sherlock's bed?

 _Idiot_.

Well, whoever it was, he decided, it certainly sounded... animate. John ran his tongue over the back of his teeth as the sound spiked again, this time it was definitely a moan. Oh, Christ, he thought as his senses heightened from the focus. Someone, who was still questionably a burglar, was definitely doing something quite, uh, intimate in the far side of the flat. Something that he probably shouldn't have been listening to.

There was a gasp before it mingled into another twisting moan, and John had to run his hand over his mouth. It would have been ridiculously immature of him to deny that it was Sherlock, now, even though those sounds and that man still didn't quite mesh in his mind.

God, who did he have in there? He strained his ears, and soon gave in, with hardly any shame, and went into the kitchen with his mug. If anyone happened to vacate (naked?) from the room, he could pretend he had just got in, was about to make tea, and was deeply affronted by this kind of smut, thankyou.

"Ugh... _yes_ ," came the deep, croaky plea from beyond the suddenly paper-thin door, or so it seemed. _That_ was definitely Sherlock. Who else was in there? What were they doing to him? They were being very quiet...maybe their mouth was full.

Christ.

John hovered by the kitchen wall, the one that separated the two rooms, and found himself edging closer. He held the mug in his hand, in case said persons did decide to grab a glass of water before they continued their raunchy—

"Oh, _oh_ , _there_."

John felt his mouth go dry, because the voice that belonged to Sherlock (really? Shit) was so breathy and wanton that it didn't fit any kind of image he had of the man. There were three quick gasps and a long exhale. He was one step away to having his ear to the wall, straining to hear the second party. They must have been doing something right, because Sherlock seemed as though he couldn't grab at any kind of rational thought. Christ, they must have been talented to have _Sherlock Holmes_ speechless.

He couldn't deny that the two main conflicting thoughts in his head were juvenile, but really quite reasonable. Firstly - how come _he_ never got fantastic midday blowjobs?

 _Because you don't have those cheekbones,_ he unhelpfully reminded himself.

Secondly...how could this be the first time he had known Sherlock to do anything even remotely sexual, in all this time? And who was it? Had he...hired someone?

 _Oh God, that would make so much sense_ , added his strangely-breathy inner voice. Sherlock wouldn't bed just anyone. They would have to equal him on some levels, if not on appearance then intellect or at least skill.

" _Yes_!"

John blinked and turned to stare at the wall, as if he could figure out this mysterious person. They must have had some true talent.

 _Where had he found someone like that? Would he tell me? Would I even ask?_

If those moans were anything to go by, then yes, he probably would. Oh…but what if it was a man?

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock, so loudly that he might as well have been yelling in John's ear, howled. The sound was impressively extravagant, but it was raw, and genuine. John didn't think he had heard a sound of such honest pleasure from anyone, ever.

If John was feeling ashamed at listening, then Sherlock certainly wasn't doing anything to prevent that. Not that the man actually knew he was here. Did he?

The moaning no longer had the breathy edge to it, because something must have gone up a dial and now the man was groaning. Loud enough that John would have heard it from the living room. He blinked. Jesus, what was happening in there? He must have been having something amazing done to him to pull forth such desperate sounds.

His own burgeoning erection was almost an afterthought, a numb sort of thrill he was obtaining vicariously, from his flatmate's obvious ecstasy.

He was intrigued, almost concerned, when there was a wheezy silence. Thirty seconds passed, and the strangled groans started up again, with a sharp, hissed laugh, as though Sherlock couldn't believe what was happening to him.

John certainly couldn't. If he had been having as good a time as Sherlock clearly was, he would absolutely not be able to hold still for a bit of orgasm delay.

He was near enough pressed against the wall at this point, a small burn running a trail from neck to ears, because Sherlock had started up again with fervour.

He couldn't help but imagine what was happening, especially as there was now a small creak edging in to the moans. Something was moving the bed. John bit the inside of his cheek as an image flashed up behind his eyes, of Sherlock with some faceless stranger and the variety of positions that could make a bed move like that. The flush on his cheeks intensified, because now he felt like a creeper. One thing to listen, another to imagine. There was a strangled groan and John felt his own breath come out in a rush. _Christ_.

If Sherlock's partner was being unusually quiet (in John's mind they had a mouthful of consulting cock), the man himself was holding nothing back. He must have been close to his peak, because the decibels of his voice were rising as drastically as the pitch, till the snarled, choked yells were at the limit that his flatmate's deep voice could probably reach. John's ears were beginning to ring with the sheer volume. _Good job I closed the windows_.

He couldn't pick out anything over than guttural cries any more, and John had to take a moment to adjust himself. He never imagined Sherlock would be so... vocal. Well, he never imagined Sherlock would be into sex in any way, if he was honest. Not that he imagined Sherlock and sex together, anyway.

"Yes, _yes_ , oh _fuck_!"

John felt his body go rigid as the curse came out just as swiftly as the other pleasured cries. Hearing Sherlock swear, in that strained, deep voice, was bizarre and unreal and _Jesus_ , he was hard.

Complete words were clearly getting to be too much of a strain on the detective now. John was rapt.

"Y-Ye...Yes! Uh...oh...F...Fu...!"

Jesus Christ, shit, the man was going to have a fucking orgasm. The simplest and purest of pleasures had been transformed by the factor of Sherlock into something rare and astonishing.

John felt like he was on the tip of his toes as he strained to listen, even though the man's cries were loud enough to fill the whole damned flat. Was Sherlock squirming? Did he push his long, lithe fingers into the mysterious person's hair?

The doctor ran his tongue over his lower lip, barely registering that his own breathing had started up an uneasy rhythm. He didn't have the chance to reflect on much, because Sherlock let out a howl which would have been heard downstairs, even through the doors.

"Shit," he muttered to himself, completely gobsmacked by the sheer ecstasy in the detective's cries.

God, if Mrs. Hudson was here, he'd be in for it later. It would be adding insult to injury that, contrary to her beliefs, he was _not_ the one delivering the mind-blowing pleasure.

How often did he do this, anyway? Every time John was out? Once a week? If he was purposely keeping it from John, maybe he was aware of his own... _expansive_ responses during sex.

There was a breathless, tension-soaked pause behind the door, then one final, hoarse scream that was the moneymaker. Uncontrolled thumps of mattress, pained growls, grunts, and sobs of exhaustion and disbelief.

John marvelled at the power of that climax, and his cock reminded him that it would really, _really_ like some attention soon.

He could still hear Sherlock gasping for air as he pressed his palm against his trousers, hissing at the contact. Shit, the man had a voice made for porn.

How had he not heard that before, though? He didn't think Sherlock was into sex or anything surrounding it, but the rustling of sheets told him otherwise.

…Were they kissing? Would Sherlock return the favour?

Why did the thought of someone else's voice suddenly make his spine snap taut?

John swallowed thickly, forcing himself to step away from the wall. He needed a shower, where the spray would actually mask his voice rather than have it vibrating against the walls and wailed into the street below.

He was mildly surprised when he heard (admittedly staggered, heavy) footsteps, a few cracks and pops of over-worked joints, a massive, satisfied sigh, and the door to the bathroom open and close. Sherlock distantly turned on the shower.

 _So much for that idea, then,_ he thought _. Still...bit rude of him to just...leave them in bed. He didn't even say anything to them._

John stood still, even though he knew Sherlock wouldn't hear him. He was still listening for another rustle of sheets, a huff, or a groan. It was entirely possible that Sherlock had sated his partner beforehand and they were just lying there. Probably naked. John swallowed again, deciding that his curiosity was piqued enough for him to actually go and find out, and that it would be better to definitely _not_ do that.

Even with Sherlock under the spray of the shower, he measured his steps carefully and quietly, making his way upstairs to his own distinctly chilly room. He did _not_ want to alert the attention of Sherlock's bedmate, whoever he/she/it may be. Especially if they were as astute as the man himself, which was entirely possible, and even probable. He wouldn't deign to sleep with someone 'lesser' than himself, presumably.

Settling onto the bed with speed that was almost panicked, he unzipped and freed himself, gasping with relief. The January air was cool here, but he felt like he had brought a megaton of heat in with him...mostly generated by embarrassment and arousal.

He wrapped his fingers firmly around his ridiculously hard erection, casting a glance to make sure he'd shut the door. The last thing he needed was Sherlock hearing him. God, with that brain he would figure it all out too quickly - and John didn't know if he would be amused or dumbfounded by his flatmates' reaction.

John felt like he didn't know much of anything anymore, because Sherlock had just had what sounded like fantastic sex, which had turned him on to a painful degree, and that was just not a conversation to have. Instead he gave himself a long stroke, his breath hitching as heat knotted in the bottom of his stomach. Shit, but it was sexy though.

Brow furrowing into an oft-revisited visage of pleasure, he licked his lips once, a habit he had always had and one that he had so far failed to eradicate.

A few strokes told him that his body was in no mood to wait, it was primed to full and he was stunned to find he was already achingly close to a point of no return. He reactively shortened and sped his strokes, twisting swiftly and firmly, opening his indigo eyes to glance down with distracted fascination at the slickness he felt, his body's response to Sherlock's release.

He let out a long breath, careful to catch himself before it became a strangled moan, letting his fingers ghost over the tip of his cock to slick themselves before starting up his rhythm again. Normally he would take his time with this, twist his wrists and feel his way to orgasm - but he was already far too stimulated.

The whispers of Sherlock's moans echoed in his mind and his hand stuttered before redoubling its speed.

"Ah, ah...shit," he muttered, turning his head to his shoulder to keep himself quiet. At least _he_ had some restraint.

He regulated his increasingly-staggered and coarse exhales as best he could, gritting his teeth against a sharp twinge of pleasure that almost hurt. Nibbling his bottom lip unconsciously, he dared to picture Sherlock in the throes of his climax.

God, what if someone could bring _him_ to bliss like that? What if _he_ could meet the challenge and take Sherlock there again, to that incredible, beautiful peak..? Oh - _Shit, shit, shit!_

He came quickly, and messily, and it was all over far too soon. Feeling underwhelmed, he lay there, cooling and drying off rather unpleasantly, listening to his heartbeat slow back down. It raced back up again when it occurred to him that he should really vacate the flat before Sherlock got out of the shower and bumped into him. The events would play themselves out on John's face like a HD movie with surround sound.

Trying to wet his lips with his dry tongue, John managed to fight off the languid urge to just lie there until he'd completely gotten his breath back, and forced himself into a sitting position. His heart was still fluttering in his chest, but it was starting to settle, even if the adrenaline was still trying to rack it up again.

He winced as he felt the little pool on his stomach get caught between his skin, pulling a face as he slipped off the bed and reached into his washing basket. He cleaned himself up, still feeling as though he hadn't quite scratched the itch, and desperately trying not to think about the fact he had essentially just got himself off solely on Sherlock's own orgasm.

Jesus, he thought, pulling up his jeans. He needed his head examined.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time John reached the bottom of the stairs outside their flat and had a hand on the front door, his cautiousness had been overpowered by stark fear at running into Sherlock and his pal. The relief of escape into the wide world outside 221B was tangible in the chipped wood of the door, and he welcomed it.

Until a bony hand slapped down on his shoulder.

"Shit! Sorry," he apologised immediately for swearing, a reflex upon jerking around and seeing their landlady giving him a doubly-disapproving look.

He knew he was highly-strung, and from the look Mrs Hudson gave him, it was obvious on the outside as well. He had to force himself to take a breath, mostly so he didn't just bolt out of the building and into the fresh January air. The snow was falling heavily, masking the street in a white haze, but John couldn't step into it with Mrs Hudson pulling him back inside.

"Is everything alright, Mrs Hudson?" he asked cautiously, sending another wanting glance to the wintry freedom of London waiting just over the threshold.

"Not this time, young man. I don't know where to start with you, I really don't. This is how you escape me every time? You run out the door the first second you get? Is this how you deal with all your denial? Honestly, leaving poor Sherlock alone up there. Not that he isn't in trouble too. He ignores me but you're going to listen. Come on, Doctor Watson."

Struck silent with pure confusion, but finding himself following obediently anyway, John trailed his diminutive landlady to her quaint little kitchen. She sat him down and fixed him with a judgmental eye.

He tried not to squirm in the hard chair as the older woman watched him, her eyes asking a series of questions that he didn't quite want to answer right now. But then a thought struck him, and John frowned.

"Denial? What do you mean?"

Mrs Hudson liked to tease and hint on a regular basis about what he and Sherlock were, what they could be, all that malarkey. It left his head feeling like cotton was taking up his brain space.

"Do you know how much it must hurt him when his boyfriend goes around telling everyone he's not gay, that you're just friends? Just flatmates? Where do you get off on making love to him and then running out? And don't try to deny it dear, I know full well what you were doing. The whole street knows, probably," she fussed, blushing sweetly.

John felt his jaw near enough fall into his lap, blinking furiously as he tried to come to terms with what his landlady had just told him.

He tried for words, but they failed, so the doctor snapped his mouth shut and cleared his throat. There was another blush creeping up his neck, but he put that aside to really face her.

"Mrs Hudson... that wasn't me. Just so you know. That was just Sherlock - and, someone else, I'm assuming. I had..." John licked his lower lip as he fought back a giggle, because the whole damn situation was ridiculous really. "I had nothing to do with... _that_."

"I've had words with him, I've told him time and again to keep the noise down. He just says nothing, tunes me out. And I've never been able to find you in the aftermath to give you an earful either," she continued, as if she hadn't heard him.

 _Well, at least now I know Sherlock's done it before_ , John pondered silently. Mrs. Hudson carried on.

"And another thing... _Oh_ …" There was a moment of awful realisation as the penny dropped. "John? He…...he's with someone else? Have you broken up?" She whispered tentatively, looking bereft.

John reached up and covered half of his face with his hand, moving to pinch the bridge of his nose to keep himself from either laughing or going mental.

Sherlock had done this before, and Mrs Hudson had presumed it was John, and that really explained why she was so adamant they were a thing.

Oh, for God's sake.

"We haven't broken up," he said slowly around gritted teeth. "We were never together. Before, or now. It was never me making him scre-" John cut himself off. "Wasn't me."

Mrs. Hudson looked adorably confused, and lost for words.

"But...you and him?" she asked, as if that was all that really needed to be said.

John huffed out a breath, softened by her wide eyes. She sounded thoroughly disappointed, and that was enough for him to let go of his frustration.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson. Whoever is up there is the only one who... you know. Gets Sherlock."

John wondered at the maudlin sound of his own voice, even as he spoke.

"I don't think he even knew I was there today. I had a half-day, came home early. I honestly...don't know who he's with."

Mrs Hudson's eyes went wider before her pupils dilated, and John found himself squirming again at the new incredulous look that came over her.

"No idea at all?" she asked, although John could practically see the gears turning in her head.

"I hate to say it…" he began, hesitating.

 _Deduce, John_ , came a deep voice in his head, bordering on sarcasm.

"...Afterwards, he didn't..." He couldn't quite believe he was having this conversation. "He didn't say a word to her. Or...whoever it was. Just went to shower. So maybe it was, you know...someone he...paid for."

His voice had gotten quieter until it was barely audible. The place under his skin was burning with blushes.

Mrs Hudson didn't burst into embarrassed flutters like he expected her to do, though, so John found himself looking up despite the burn still dotting his skin. The landlady was still stood there, her face slightly slack, her eyes wide.

"Mrs Hudson?" he said quickly, for a moment hoping he hadn't shocked her into a stroke.

"I've never seen anyone," she said thoughtfully. "...Sherlock's a good-looking boy, why would he need to pay to bed someone?"

"I don't know, maybe his way with words," John shrugged, sounding more bitter than he had intended.

He didn't notice the sharp turn her head took, but thankfully her own thoughts seemed to draw her away from his tone and she started about the kitchen, no doubt making tea.

"It still doesn't make sense, dear," she said distractedly. "Maybe it's just someone he doesn't want us to meet? He might be nervous, poor thing. Either that, or he doesn't want someone in particular to know."

"If it's because it's...a man, he should know by now that I don't care." _Liar_. "Since when does he give a damn what other people think anyway? Even if he _is_ as loud as a bloody firework," he managed to smirk feebly.

Mrs Hudson hummed under her breath, setting a teapot in the middle of her little table along with two cups and saucers. John tried not to pick at the fact she hadn't said anything else on the subject, and the more he studied her, the more he recognised the knowing in her eyes.

"Do you know who it is?" he tried, internally wincing at the edge his voice suddenly had. Christ, he was riding a fucking emotional roller-coaster this morning.

"I really couldn't say dear, but I have suspicions. But it's not my place to fill your head with what-ifs and maybes. If he's as blunt as you say, you won't have any problem getting him to tell you if you just ask him." She managed to sound fond and snarky at the same time.

John had to bite back a pout, his eyes flickering up to his landlady every other second as she poured tea.

"Have I met them?" he asked, trying for nonchalance but knowing he hadn't pulled it off in the slightest. He did notice a small quirk in the corner of her mouth, though, and John fumed internally.

As he tried to rehearse how to word his next query and not sound like a pining teenager, the rumble of heavy steps above his head instilled a cold lump of dread in his chest that pumped ice water through his veins. The seconds between that ominous sound and a fully-dressed, damp-haired Sherlock breezing into the kitchen seemed to have been fast-forwarded by some cruel deity.

The detective swooped down to Mrs. Hudson and kissed her on the cheek. John noted that she looked enviably unruffled. Sherlock turned and grinned widely at him, only appearing briefly surprised to see him. His expression was open, soft...happy.

"John! You're back early. Did you get fired again?"

Sherlock rarely looked that giddy and carefree, usually when he got a particularly interesting case. Now, John was starting to doubt his mood swings, considering he was constantly being presented with the evidence that the man may have had a partner for longer than he wanted to know.

"Uh, no, what? No, I just got off early," he said, completely unable to stop himself from mumbling at the whirlwind that was Sherlock after an orgasm.

"Indeed!" Sherlock beamed, his eyes twinkling with private laughter at John's phrasing. He turned to Mrs. Hudson, and disarmed her with a stare. Standing tall, he took a deep inhale and prepared for what looked to be a momentous announcement.

"Hudders, I feel duty bound to inform you that we have a ghost. A poltergeist. I expect a reduction in the rent next month."

 _H... Hudders_? John found himself completely dumbfounded, by both Sherlock's evident good mood and the pet name he'd apparently just given to Mrs Hudson right on the spot. He rarely got to see this side of Sherlock. Maybe he never got to see it because he planned his little trysts around John's absence. That thought both confused him and shot a spike of jealousy right to his gut. He only managed to clamber up to the conversation when he realised how strange the announcement had been.

"A poltergeist? What are you on about, Sherlock?"

Maybe his tone was a little more biting than he'd intended, but he wasn't about to explain himself. Not that he could find the words, anyway.

"I vacated my room to find that all the windows that I had previously opened wide, were closed. And the heating was off, and the room was cold. That's a sign of demonic infestation, or so I hear?"

He directed this question at John, and in a second, his grin had turned fiendish, but still without malice.

John felt his spine go rigid and for a moment he was well and truly flustered. Thankfully he had enough control to clamp down on it. He had two options, deny it and risk another one of those wicked knowing smirks, or come clean and politely skip around the whole listening-to-Sherlock-having-sex thing. Christ.

"That was me, you pleb. You had the heating on and the windows open. Are you trying to drown us in gas bills? We can barely afford it as it is." _That's right_ , he told himself. Skirt around the subject. Not like there was an elephant in the room.

"John, don't be ridiculous, we have lots of money. Well, _I_ have lots of money. But you can share it." Sherlock treated him to one of his most infuriatingly-winning smiles.

John clenched and released his teeth, trying his hardest not to shift under that stupid grin. Since when did Sherlock smile so much, anyway? _When he knows all the answers, of course._

Sherlock, it had to said, was _glowing_. If he did this often, it's no surprise he looked so young and his skin was so fucking perfect. Apart from his flushed face and sparkling green eyes, he didn't look like a man who had just been wiped out by a massive orgasm.

Sherlock, glancing innocently between John and his landlady, shrugged. "Well, there might still be a ghost, and I'm afraid to say that exorcism isn't among my skills. So I expect a reduction in rent, Mrs. Hudson, the place would be unliveable with a malevolent entity inhabiting it. Besides which, we're _drowning_ in bills, don't you know." He paused to grin unabashedly at John. "If you're going upstairs, either of you, I beg you allow twenty minutes or so. My friend is quite shy. I would have liked to maintain complete privacy on this matter, but since you both clearly know now, the subject is unavoidable."

John felt his jaw hang open before he was quick to pick it up. There _was_ someone up there. Of course there was. And Sherlock had just admitted to it. He'd heard it, with his own ears _. Jesus Christ, Sherlock Holmes has a girlfriend. Or, well. Boyfriend_. He must have done something like blink too many times in a second because Sherlock swept his piercing eyes towards John, who quite frankly at this point, was speechless.

Mrs Hudson was looking at him too, and the contrast would have been funny if his insides weren't squirming under the attention. Whereas Sherlock looked bright and rejuvenated, Mrs Hudson looked almost disappointed, and she was giving John a small, pitying smile.

"Well," he said after a moment, slapping his hands to his thighs and getting to his feet. "I'll uh, just go out, then."

"Why? You've only just started your tea. You've had quite a shock, that much is clear for anyone to see. You have questions, I'm sure. You may ask what you like later, but be aware that you may not get an answer. I am entitled to some privacy, after all. I'm sure you and Mrs. Hudson have much to discuss."

Taking a fortifying breath, Sherlock beamed again, and the crinkly smile that usually made John's stomach flip-flop with affection, now did the same with rather more nauseous results.

The detective straightened his impeccable clothes and turned with a flourish, calling back loudly, "I need to go and say goodbye."

John couldn't even splutter a response, far too agitated for his own good. He decided that he needed to stay quiet and still his racing heart, otherwise he would say something that made him look like an idiot. Not that it mattered, really, considering he was just stood there half-poised to run.

He watched the detective go, taking the steps two at a time as if he couldn't wait to say goodbye to whoever had given him what sounded like a mind-blowing orgasm.

"See," he said, turning back to his landlady. "It wasn't me." _Oh, and didn't that come out with an edge of steel?_

"Oh, John," Mrs. Hudson cooed, with anguish in her eyes, and a supportive hand on his arm. He looked up at her, startled.

"...Why are you pitying me? I don't care. I just thought we were friends, that's all. He could've told me," he muttered, well aware that he was officially griping now.

Mrs Hudson's hand gripped him a little tighter, almost as if creating an anchor point for him. But it was ridiculous. It was _all_ ridiculous, and he hoped the smile he gave the dear woman reflected that. Mrs Hudson didn't miss a beat, giving him another one of her sad smiles.

"You should tell him, you know."

"Mrs. Hudson!" He exclaimed, not shouting, not quite. But certainly a warning volume to anyone who knew the sometimes hot-tempered doctor. "I don't know what's playing out in your head, but you can't know every little nuance of Sherlock's and my life just from living below us. Just...please, drop it," he said more quietly, deflating. "I admit, this has...thrown me for a loop. But I can't even tell you precisely why right now."

He watched her body jerk tall, and felt himself deflate even more. It had been a quick reaction, one he couldn't have stopped. It could have been the pity in her tone, or what she had implied. All of it; he just needed to drop all of it.

Without really thinking, John turned.

"Thank you for the tea," he added quickly as he stepped into the hallway. He couldn't quite stop another glance up the stairs, almost as if he could work out the puzzle himself.

What the puzzle, really? Why did he even care who Sherlock was fucking? Before he could go up the stairs to find out, John had to clear his head. No doubt he'd be faced with Sherlock's knowing grin when he got back. Sherlock would be expecting questions, no doubt lining up all the answers.

He would have described Sherlock as unbearably smug, but...he couldn't. It wasn't as if he had bragged to John about finding an amazing partner. He hadn't said a single word, and had managed to keep it secret for...well, perhaps from the very beginning. If it had been him...he was ashamed to admit that he'd be the first one to gloat...or at least preen a little about it.

Instead Sherlock had done the opposite, he even seemed a little put out at the fact that John - and Mrs Hudson knew. Not that they could have done anything else, the man had been howling like a banshee so what else would they have thought? It messed with his head far more than it should have, probably because it had messed with his body, too.

And that... _that_ was the crux.

The vital, tiny, massive detail that he really didn't want to contemplate. For now, the absolute maximum of thought he wanted to assign to it was that he had become aroused from the frankly spectacular, carnal thrill of sex. Sex that just happened to be going on _very_ loudly on the other side of his kitchen.

In Sherlock's bed.

He vacated the flat, taking a deep, lung-burning breath of frozen January air. It both numbed and energised him, and he began to walk.


	3. Chapter 3

The door to 221B echoed loudly in the afternoon dimness of the hallway, mostly because he'd closed it with more force than he'd initially intended. John stopped for a moment, half-expecting Mrs. Hudson to come out and see what the fuss was. Instead he stood there briefly, before realising that no one was coming.

With bated breath, John started up the stairs, shedding his coat as he walked. Maybe Sherlock wasn't here, he thought idly. That would be better. He wasn't in the greatest mood for pleasantries and didn't think he had it in him to deal with Happy, Sexually-Satisfied Sherlock. He pushed open the second door and turned to the hooks along the wall, hanging his coat and pretty much ignoring the slumped, pyjama-clad figure spread over the leather couch.

He had expected an immediate, intrusive and perfectly-accurate deduction, but Sherlock carried on reading his (...John's) Kindle, humming the occasional note, and twitching his bare feet peaceably.

John was almost disappointed.

Trying not to feel flabbergasted at Sherlock's lack of deductions, he turned and gave the man one long sweeping appraisal. Sherlock was rarely so... still.

"You haven't deleted all my books again, have you?" he found himself asking, more to the cut the silence than anything.

Sherlock looked up, his expression cherubim, eyes languid and his glossy dark curls looking less wild ( _manhandled_ ) than they had earlier that day.

"By 'books,' I assume you mean whatever you happened to hear was at the top of the list of bestsellers that month, regardless of the genre. And John...'50 Shades of Grey,' really? I'm disappointed. If you want erotic fiction, I'll give you some recommendations."

 _No doubt theories tried and tested_. John opened his mouth but decided that he didn't want to bumble, so he let out a harsh breath. "Take that as a 'yes', then."

"It wouldn't be worth the milliseconds it would take to delete them. If ever you become a fugitive, and they look into your reading habits to try and glean information about you, they'd have a hell of a job. All they'd know is that you're impressionable and rather bland. Besides, there's plenty of room left on it for things I want to read."

Oh, that was better. There was the Sherlock Holmes he knew.

"Anything else you want to add, there? No?" he kept his tone clipped, because if he didn't give some indicator that he was annoyed then Sherlock would never pick up on it. "If my personal literature choice is too _bland_ for you, why not go and spend your own money on your own bloody Kindle?"

"John," Sherlock sighed, sitting up and swinging his legs to the floor so he could place his long, pale hands in front of his lips in a prayer position and fix him with That Look. "...This isn't really about the Kindle, is it?"

The wording might have generated a snicker from John if Sherlock didn't sound so serious, so...concerned.

It gave John an edge of alarm, but really, what had been expecting?

"Don't do that," he said quickly, pointing accusingly in Sherlock's direction. "The thing you're about to do. Don't deduce me. If you want to know something, just ask."

Sherlock raised his hands in supplication, sitting back in a less aggressive pose, his legs spread lazily and his rumpled dressing gown pooled around him. "You can't deny you enjoy the drama of it," he said, grinning knowingly. "And _I'm_ not the one with questions."

John sighed and pinched the bridge of nose, shaking his head.

"Maybe a few, but that's your business to be honest Sherlock, and I'm not going to pry." _Tell me anyway_ , he added mentally.

"I'll start us off then, since you're so reticent. First question. Why do you think I didn't tell you?" Sherlock asked simply, eyes calm.

How had this suddenly shifted to Sherlock asking the questions? Probably because Sherlock knew he was bloody curious.  
"Because it's your business? Although it is common courtesy to put a tie on the door or something."

"To put a what on the door? …Why?" Sherlock frowned, brow furrowing in that way that always made John kind of want to poke the little bump that formed there.

He resisted the urge, but it was a close call, and he felt a bit of tension ease from his shoulders.

"I'm not going to explain that to you. Just give me a heads up next time okay?"

"...I hadn't anticipated you would be home. Up until now, I haven't needed to...warn you. I apologise. I am aware I am...expressive in such situations. I can do little to control it." The blasé pronouncement was not accompanied by any blush or apparent self-consciousness on Sherlock's part.

How did he do that? Just admit to something so intimate without even stuttering?

"You don't... need to apologise," he said carefully. "Just, uh, you know. Let me know beforehand so I can give you, uh, your privacy with..." He tried not to shift from foot to foot, because this was still surreal. "How long have you been with... them?"

"There's only one person, John. I prefer to focus my efforts...completely."

"Oh, yeah, yes. Right." Jesus Christ. The man certainly wasn't lying, and no doubt the other person had the same sex ethics. "Well, is it a serious thing?"

"It's been going on since before you met me."  
John searched that grey-green gaze, which managed to appear both guileless and impenetrable at the same time, and saw no hint of an untruth.

So it must have been serious. For Sherlock's face to give nothing away, a trait not all unfamiliar, it must have been true. He couldn't understand why Sherlock had never said anything about it, though, mostly because John had asked him if there were anyone the first time they'd been to Angelo's.

"Right," he said thoughtfully. "Were you ever planning to introduce them to me? Or anyone?"

"Who says you don't already know them?" Sherlock asked in a low tone, grinning fiendishly. He was beginning to enjoy this.

John felt the heat curling up his neck, because Sherlock rarely paid so much attention to him unless he was under the microscope of his eyes.

"Do I?" he asked, maybe a little too enthusiastically. He did notice the way Sherlock's face brightened, the smile taking a curling edge, and he could have punched the man. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"That, John is on a need-to-know basis, and the only person who needs to know is me, and the person who is making love to me," he said, a blush finally staining his high cheekbones a rose petal-pink.

John would have revelled in the long-awaited dusting of colour on that pale skin, if he didn't feel a parallel burning in his own. He cleared his throat.

"Yes, well, I get that. But you do know that everyone could hear you, right? That _Mrs Hudson_ can hear you. You might want to... tone it down a little?"

Sherlock's reply was flippant again. "I have tried everything John, believe me. But you know I don't like to waste precious time on bodily needs. Therefore if I must do it, I'll do it properly. I'll only partake in sex if I can guarantee a black-out level orgasm. Otherwise, it's entirely not worth the effort." His blush was disappearing. Sherlock was coy when he discussed 'making love,' but not 'black-level orgasms.' God forbid 'sentiment' could be involved? Hmm…perhaps not.

Maybe that was why Sherlock had never mentioned a partner, because it wasn't actually serious. If Sherlock only 'partook' in that frivolous engagement when he had to, then that wouldn't be the basis of a relationship, would it?

Jesus, Sherlock had a fuck-buddy. And from what John had heard, it was an incredibly gifted buddy. He ran his tongue over his lower lip, unsure whether he was more embarrassed for himself or for Sherlock's lack of subtlety.

"Um, alright."

What else could he say? ' _Well I'm still dying to know who it is, what the gender is, and where I can find one because on my own I'm left being constantly rejected and you sounded like you nearly fainted during climax.'_

Subtle.

"...Does my behaviour...upset you?" Sherlock seemed genuinely curious as to the answer, as if he wasn't sure if he had once again overstepped the invisible line and done something Not Good.

John did shift at that point, turning to take off his shoes. It was much easier to face the man when he wasn't looking directly at him.

"Upset me? Don't be silly, Sherlock. Just surprised me a bit."

"I'm not...promiscuous. I practice safe sex, if you're worried about that. This is actually the only partner I've ever had."

"Jesus, Sherlock!"

John turned awkwardly on his feet to face him, but he couldn't feel anger towards the man. Not when he was sat with his legs tucked underneath him, his brow furrowed in the way it did when he was trying to understand something. When he was trying to collate the pieces together and move them in tandem.

"I'm really not wanting to know the details, I think I heard enough." Ah, shit. Now he'd admitted to hearing it all. "I trust you know what you're doing. It's fine, please don't explain. Just... A tie. On the door. Humour me."

"You really don't think you would know I was participating in sex unless I hang clothing on the door? What if I just leave earplugs on your pillow," Sherlock chuckled, but soon sobered when John just glared at him.

"A tie. On the door. If you would be so kind," he added with a bite, finally brushing past the man into the kitchen. He should have been able to laugh it off, really he should. So why couldn't he? John flicked the kettle switch and took a deep breath.

"...I could teach you," Sherlock's voice came plaintively. The subsequent silence was as blanketing as the freezing snow that had now evolved from slush to crunch on the grubby London streets.

The mug in John's hand clattered against the counter as the doctor tried to adjust to what Sherlock had just said.

"What?" He turned and moved his head around the door. "What did you just say? Did you... Did you really just say that?"

Sherlock was looking more confident and bright, as if he had finally pin-pointed the nerve centre of John's obvious angst, and could now go about mollifying it. "You were intrigued, when I told you about mastering pleasure. I admit it sounds a lot grander when you say it like that. But I can teach you how, it'll be worth it. God knows you have sex more than I do. Tantric techniques are really only part of it, it's really a fascinating subject, and one unique to each individual person."

John blinked, quite a few times, trying to piece together everything that was wrong with this whole situation.

"I don't need to you teach me," he finally spluttered out. "I just don't need to walk into my own house with moans bouncing off the walls after a long day at work, okay? You want to have mind-blowing sex, fine, but don't rub it in my face."

 _Calm, calm_. John realised he was about to implode, for nothing other than jealousy that Sherlock was not only having sex, but it was far better than John could ever remember having.

Sherlock pressed on, calling out to him, even as John finally started rummaging in the fridge for dinner, considering the conversation to be ended.

"...I wouldn't have to touch you, or even undress you. No-one could consider it homosexual."

The detective flinched as the response that greeted him was not, in fact, John's heartfelt agreement and a warm chuckle, but a sound that was indisputably a mug being hurled at the tiled wall, ceramic shards raining onto the counter. Sherlock squirmed back into the sofa as the hot-headed doctor appeared, snarling and apparently furious.

"Fuck you, Sherlock, it's not about that. Keep your hands to yourself and your friend. Don't talk to _me_ about this shit just because you two have nothing to say to each other. You've proved once again that you're superior to me. Fine, I accept it. You even fuck better than me. And now you think I'd be grateful for a hands-on demonstration. Well, fuck off."

His breath was heavy, even as Sherlock practically cowered on the sofa. It took three long breaths for the doctor to notice the slight change in Sherlock's face. He recognised it, the lowering of the eyes, the pursed lips, the crumpled chin.

Oh for fuck's sake. John raked his hand through his hair.

"Look, Sherlock. No. Just... No."

"Um...I think I'm going to stop talking now," Sherlock said weakly, his face looking even more pale than usual. A nervous blue vein throbbed in his temple.

"Sorry...I just...let's just...forget that. Come 'ere," John said apologetically, leaving down and giving Sherlock a quick, rare hug. He pulled back and almost laughed at Sherlock's apparent bemusement. "Want to get rat-arsed?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered over John's face, as if he were searching for something. No doubt he was seeing every thought, or lack thereof, passing over his features. It was only one moment of stillness, but the detective must have understood something, because the pout vanished, replaced by that giddy post-orgasm excitement.

"If you like."


	4. Chapter 4

An hour later, they had settled in to a surprisingly cosy and easy-going evening. Sherlock had lit a crackling fire, the curtains were closed, the lights were dim, and a wonderful gloomy warmth had banished the sub-zero blackness outside. London might as well have been a byword for some far-distant, mythical and hostile place.

John had said "We're gonna regret this," three times, and Sherlock had grinned in agreement each time. They had started off with a fruit-flavoured beer each, which John had been given the previous Christmas. It was vile.

Sherlock had soon whipped out his private collection of Japanese sake, and they were now a few glasses in, sitting together on the sofa.

Whilst Sherlock had been heating up the drinks (for authenticity, apparently), John had flicked the TV on to a music channel, and they were now watching some sort of 'countdown of the 80's.' It was fucking brilliant.

It was easier now he'd had his outburst, and the small thimble-like cups that Sherlock had set out drew his attention away from Def Leppard, but now there wasn't much holding his attention because he was already feeling the fuzzy effects. He watched as the man poured the cups full once more.

"I don't know if I like this," he said, even though he accepted another thimble full. "It's got a really strong aftertaste. And it's warm."

"All the better to inib- in- _ee_ -briate you with," Sherlock quipped, snuffling with laughter. He was surprisingly lightweight when it came to alcohol, something that had always tickled the doctor. "John, money. It costs money, so it's good. Do you want to know how much money we have," he chuckled, before bopping his head to the intro of a Spandeau Ballet track.

"Well hopefully enough to cover the gas bill," John replied, unable to stop a ridiculous high-pitched laugh before covering his mouth with the back of his hand. "Why..." He cleared his throat. "Why do we have so much money, and yet nothing in the fridge but gone-off yoghurt and fingers?"

"Because we're so...metro, John," Sherlock said, flouncing his hands dramatically. He typed a number in his phone with slightly trembly, long fingers, and gave it to John. "Text 'FUNDS' to this number. It tells you how much we've got."

John obeyed, sent the message, and then peered at the number he had delivered it to. "Um...isn't that...Mycroft's number?"

Sherlock let out a snort before chuckling, and John couldn't help but smile in return. He waited a moment, wondering what response they would get before the phone in his hand vibrated.

John choked out a laugh as he turned to read the text to Sherlock.

"Thank you for your message to the National Bank of Holmes. Unfortunately we are experiencing technical difficulties and do not have the time to pander to whimsical siblings. We recommend checking with your real bank."

"See how quick he replied?" Sherlock giggled, his deep, mellifluous laugh that sounded like a mastodon purring. "...Means he's...lonely. And fat."

"Oh, don't be so mean about poor Mycroft," John said with a small pout, even though he was fighting back giggles. "He's just wishing he could have some of this... Slightly bitter...warm stuff."

The doctor picked up the odd-shaped bottle that contained more of the cooling drink, eyeing the colourful and elaborate Japanese text, before refilling their thimbles.

"He has hundred-year old wine that he won't drink 'cos...it's a hundred years old. What a waste," Sherlock pondered, forgoing his small cup and instead taking a few swigs from the kanji-covered bottle.

"Oh don't be gross," John whined as he reached forward to take the bottle away from Sherlock. "Don't want your spit in there," he grumbled. "God knows where it's been."

"In my salivary glands. And my mouth. Where it should be," Sherlock shrugged, with the accompaniment of John's scoff of laughter, before getting up, shucking his heavy dressing-gown in the tipsy heat of the room and leaving it in a puddle of silk on the floor.

He rushed to the kitchen, returning with two large tumblers. "S'better," he announced, nodding approvingly as he sat back down on the sofa with a thump.

"Drink now, John. Before it gets cold," he snickered, taking a breather in which to scoot down onto the floor, back against the sofa with his long legs out straight, head-banging gently to the music.

John couldn't stop himself from watching Sherlock as he unwound his long limbs.

"So why didn't you tell me, before, about... Person?"

Sherlock stopped bopping and let out a long, rumbling exhale, which made it feel and sound like there was an engine somewhere in the room. John couldn't tell if it was contented, or thoughtful, or peeved.  
"…I'm loud," came the eventual reply, accompanied by a soppy smile.

John let out a playful, suffering sigh. Thankfully he could blame the drink for the colour on his cheeks.

"Yes you bloody are, Christ." He shifted but laughed, even if it was a little nervous. Then something occurred to John. "Sherlock... said that she'd...already told you off about that. My god, what did she do the first time she heard you?"

Sherlock let out a small giggle before he haphazardly filled his tumbler, spilling a generous amount on the table.

"It involved my violin, two suits and a box of microscope slides. I would recommend you don't press for details, John."

"You...okay, I won't ask. But seriously, you could have killed the woman. You nearly gave _me_ a heart attack." He took a few gulps of the lukewarm sake. It was beginning to grow on him.

John was just smacking his lips when he noticed Sherlock was watching him steadily. His eyes were glazed from the drink, but still sharp.

"What?"

"You didn't run off straight away. Or bang on the door. Or yell 'where's your tie Sherlock!'" His eyes were hazy, but it was clear his scrutiny, though perhaps a little dazed, was all on John.

John swallowed a few times before covering his lips with his glass. It gave him a moment to regain his composure - which was slanted as it was.

"I was surprised. I mean, you said you weren't interested in anyone. Hearing that... threw me off. So I just... left."

"And went where? Your bedroom?" There was no accusation in Sherlock's voice. The detective was now swishing the colourless liquid in his glass, seemingly entranced by it.

A small sound escaped John's throat before he turned it into a cough, shifting a little on the sofa.

"Yes, I went to my room, I got changed and then left. Then I bumped into Mrs Hudson – hey, why am I the one being interrogated here? You're the one with a secret girlfriend, I'm sure it's your turn to spill the beans."

Snorting with amusement, his eyes a bit swimmy, Sherlock dipped a finger into his drink and swirled it distractedly. "Oh John, you do make me laugh. You're as good at deflecting as I am. Or as consistent, at least."

John couldn't stop a smile at that, watching Sherlock's finger as it swirled the liquid. He couldn't help but imagine whether or not Sherlock was talented with them-

"I didn't deflect. I answered. You're the one who's deflecting. Won't you tell me anything about her?"

"Why do you care?" They glanced at each other, daring.

"Why won't you tell me?" he shot back, keeping Sherlock's eye.

"Why do you answer questions with more questions?"

"Why don't you answer _any_?"

"Fine. I'll tell you stuff. About my...stuff. But I guarantee in under two minutes you'll tell me to shut up and say 'too much information Sherlock,' or you'll get narked and jealous, or embarrassed, or all three."

"I do not get jealous," John almost snapped, only just reeling back before he fell right into Sherlock's trap. "And I don't get embarrassed, when I've got a heads up."

"I'll hold you to it John. Um…Hold you to _that_. But it's not fair. I'll ask you things too. Really rude things."

"Yeah but... That's just who you are." John bit the inside of his lip before looking into his glass. "I'm kinda used to it, honestly."

"I meant things about your penis."

John choked on the mouthful of sake, leaning forward to hack up the liquid that caught the back of his throat.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he rasped, wiping his chin.

Sherlock carried on, glib as ever. "Admit I don't usually ask you about your penis."

"Not that I can remember." John coughed again before taking a soothing sip of his sake.

"Touché!" Sherlock announced victoriously. "...Hmm...I don't think that's the right word."

His expression crumpled and he crooked a hand in front of his mouth as he pondered the right phrase. A few seconds later, he frowned at John as if he had actually spoken. "Stop trying to distract me from your genitals."

John let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head at Sherlock's bluntness.

"Are you actually going to ask me about my dick, Sherlock? Seriously?"

"Why not, you're going to ask about mine. Or more se- _sp_ ecifically, what I do with it. Where I stick it." He took a delicate mouthful of sake, and turned the music (currently A-ha's Take On Me) up, which had mysteriously gotten quieter, or so it seemed to him.

John bit his tongue between his teeth, trying to comprehend the conversation.

"I'm asking about the person, not where... you... stick it." Had Sherlock turned the heating on again?

"Who I stick it in. You're dying to know. Man, woman, or...um...anything else. Correct?"

John couldn't deny it since he was practically hanging on the edge of his seat.

"Fine, if that's how you want to play. Sherlock Holmes, who are you sticking your dick in?"

"I forgot to say," Sherlock said, louder than necessary over the music that he had turned up. "I'm not going to tell you anyone's name. You have to guess. And if you're right I still won't tell you. Because that's cheating."

John couldn't stop a grin spreading across his features.

"Now who's deflecting?"

Sherlock looked troubled, and nibbled on his plump bottom lip, before abruptly crawling across the floor in his rumpled PJ's to sit at John's feet. "Okay...you say...um...woman. And I say hot or cold. Let's play that."

He had to lick his lips again to stop himself muttering something under his breath at Sherlock kneeling in front of him. That was an image he wouldn't forget soon.

"Woman?"

Sherlock scrubbed a hand across his face, and then rested his bony chin on John's knee ponderously. "Cold."

John swallowed.

"Man?"

The detective rolled his eyes dramatically. "Don't be boring, John. Obviously it must be a man."

John raised an eyebrow, leaning forward to put his glass on the table.

"You said it's someone I might know. So...Anderson?" He couldn't stop a wicked grin.

A protracted growl of irritation, "You're not playing properly. And it's my go anyway. Did you masturbate in your room after hearing me come?"

The rapid-fire question was so quick that it was like a bullet in the room.

Almost as soon as he had asked the question, Sherlock waved a hand. "Sorry, that wasn't fair. It wasn't even a hot or cold question. Um...hmm...we need a topic for you."

John felt like he was having palpitations, the colour drained from his face.

"Okay. Yeah, topic for me." Christ, Sherlock would be able to read the answers on his face clear as day. The man didn't even need to ask them to get an answer.

"I'm going to find out about the first man you were ever attracted to. That's fair."

"Who said I've ever been attracted to a man?" he asked quickly, barely taking a breath before he answered.

"John, John, Johnny," the detective sighed patiently. " If you're going to start faffing and lying straight away, then so will I. And you won't find out anything about my penis adventures." He said this from his chinrest on his doctor's knee, where he was still perched.

John closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the sofa, letting out a long-suffering sigh.

"Fine. Your turn."

John made the mistake of opening his eyes to see Sherlock resting on his knee, eyes twinkling as they looked up at him. Goddamn it.

The detective began without preamble. "It was when you were at University?"

"Uh... Warm?" John adjusted his hips in the sofa, careful not to jar Sherlock's chin. "It's definitely someone I know, who you're with?"

"Hot," Sherlock nodded, grabbing the sake bottle again and draining it, looking mortified at the belated realisation that there was now none left. "Sake crisis," he murmured.

He scrambled off to the kitchen, with a bang and a muffled sound that suggested he had run straight into the sturdy table and was too drunk to really feel the pain of it.

He soon returned with a very expensive-looking full bottle of whiskey, looking exceedingly pleased with himself. This time, when he plopped back down to the floor, he didn't return to his previous position, and John was surprised to feel a bit bereft.

"Y'have a thing for authority. Tutor? Hmm, but I was only warm. Not _at_ University, but around the same time?"

John chuckled as he reached forward for the bottle, examining it and pulling off the lid.

"Hot," he said as he took a whiff. "So it's someone I definitely know... Did you not tell me because you thought I'd react badly?"

"Not 'thought.' I _knew_. And you did react badly. Even Hudders didn't react that badly...Then again, she thought it was you," Sherlock pondered aloud.

"Stop calling her 'Hudders,' it's unnerving. And I didn't react badly, I was just shocked. If you told me outright I would have understood." It took him a moment to process what Sherlock had said completely, and he couldn't help a small chuckle. "Yeah, don't think she believed me until you confirmed it wasn't me. And then she looked well put out."

"She thinks we belong together. It's rather sweet," Sherlock mused, before taking an obscene gulp of whiskey and sighing contentedly. "I'm guessing this man you were attracted to...you never progressed to anywhere near penetrative sex with him. Though you considered it. Wanted it. You probably made a move and he rejected you."

John felt he shoulders tense and he let his breath out in a hiss, reaching for the bottle and pouring a generous amount of whiskey into his tumbler.

"Nice, Sherlock. Subtle."

"...Was that a 'hot,' then? That's a shame. You'd make a good partner. He was clearly an idiot."

Despite the roundabout way Sherlock had picked apart his history, John felt quite comforted by his words.

"He _was_ an idiot…I'm not angry or anything, you know. I am happy for you. Can I meet him?"

"...He's not my boyfriend. We've never even kissed."

"But... You've had sex?"

"Yes, but he...I haven't experienced anything romantic with him."

"Oh..." John didn't quite know how to answer. If Sherlock had been with this mysterious man for so long, there would have to be some kind of emotions involved, wouldn't there? It was human nature to develop some kind of emotional attachment.

"Just sex then."

"Unfortunately."

John didn't know what to make of _that_ response, either. "…Oh, well... Can I at least know his name? Would make it less daunting should I, you know, accidentally walk in on something."

"Less daunting? What are you going to do, use his name as some kind of protection spell? Silly John," he said fondly.

"Well it would make it less awkward should you start hollering his name at some point."

"I can barely form complete words at that point in my...in the proceedings. As well you know," Sherlock smirked.

That blush wasn't giving up, was it?

"Yes, I do. Lucky I caught on or I would have stormed in thinking you were being hurt."

"Yes. Lucky." Sherlock finally hoisted himself up onto the sofa beside his doctor, stretching his limbs luxuriantly before snuggling up in his own arms. "Okay John, you're honestly eaten up with curiosity about what was going on in my room, and it's going to haunt you forever. Hot or cold," he chuckled.

John narrowed his eyes, keeping up the semi-glare as he took a long swig of his drink.

"You painted a pretty clear picture, Sherlock. I don't think I need to ask with all the 'oh's and the ' right there's."

"You're really not wondering if I top or bottom?"

"Well I _wasn't_! Jesus... It's not my business to know whether you give or receive."

"John! I didn't ask if it was your business. I asked if you were curious."

"Well you're putting these questions into my head so of course I'm curious now you've brought it up!"

Sherlock chuckled, a smug look on his face. "I knew it," he teased, nudging John with his elbow affectionately. "And I know you're wondering about my earlier offer."

John scoffed but felt a tugging smile on his cheeks.

"No, I'm not wondering about it. You're obviously better at pulling then I am, and clearly you've got more practice, but I'm good in the habits I've got." Although he wouldn't mind knowing what had made Sherlock nearly scream from pleasure.

"I don't have as much practice as you think. You've used your 'habits' on men, hot or cold?"

John opened his mouth but snapped it closed again. Hell, in for a penny right?

"Hot. And you knew when I got home, hot or cold?"

"I only knew when I saw the windows. And the writing set, and mug. It was obvious you'd been there for a lot longer than the instant it would take to hear me and then leave. Oh!" The detective suddenly froze, his eyes unfocussed. He looked like someone had just told him he was sitting on a landmine. "Um, John, I don't wish to alarm you, but I'm getting an erection."

John frowned and obviously he looked down. The pyjama bottoms didn't do anything to hide the small rise, and he suddenly felt himself go rigid.

"Windows give you erections?"

He was graced with a loud tut. "Talking about orgasms gives me erections. We've been discussing sex for a while, John. And I...I'm quite easily stimulated. I'll move away." He got up and trudged to his armchair, biting the inside of his mouth before taking out his phone and beginning to type.

God, Sherlock was acting as if John had just slapped him around the face with a dead fish because he'd mentioned erections. Or, because of sex. He wasn't sure, everything was getting a bit jumbled. He watched Sherlock text for a moment before the question slipped out of his mouth.

"Are you texting him?"

There was a telling pause. Sherlock did finally flush, and quite deeply. "It's not that late. He lives near, I could go round. The thing is...I sometimes have difficulty reaching climax on my own. I have certain...preferences, and it helps vastly to have a willing partner. The other thing is that once I get an erection, it can be quite...stubborn."

John felt that creeping heat winding up his neck again but this time there was another tendril sneaking downwards. Maybe Sherlock was right - talking about sex for too long would only lead to a certain amount of arousal. He cleared his throat and squirmed in his chair.

"Oh," he said, maybe a little breathless. "I can... I can go out, if you want?"

"Um..." Sherlock seemed undecided, when his phone beeped loudly. John felt as tense as the detective looked.

"Let me know now, though, because..." _I don't really want to be here when your sexy buddy arrives to give you a mind blowing orgasm and me leaving with the knowledge that all I have is my hand?_

"He can't tonight, he's with someone else. Bugger," Sherlock shrugged, and sat back down in his armchair as if nothing untoward had occurred, though he did look fairly melancholy.

"Someone else?" Jesus, the man must have been good to have so many different lovers. He was half-glad when Sherlock mentioned that he practiced safe sex - then again, who was the fool to turn down someone like Sherlock? Surely anyone would jump at the chance to bed the man, wouldn't they?

"Well," he said a little awkwardly. "It's not the end of the world."

"No, I suppose not," Sherlock acceded. "He's not my boyfriend after all. It's a pity though...because I really am quite fond of him." There was a beat of silence. "I'd better go to bed, John. I had a pleasant evening, thank you for your company." He went to the kitchen, and downed a big glass of water. He seemed to have sobered quite literally with the rejection from his mystery man. The detective offered one last half-hearted wave before sloping off to his bedroom and closing his door.

xXxXxXx


	5. Chapter 5

John was left feeling strangely despondent after Sherlock's retreat. Having enough sense to follow the detective's example and grab a large water bottle from the fridge, drinking half of it in the dim hopes of fending off a hangover, he decided that it wasn't worth staying up on his own, and was soon making his way into his bed, still buzzing with booze.

He was still drunkenly revelling in the twisted blur of carnal confusions in his head, already half-forgetting what had been said and done, but knowing that it definitely all sprouted from the same root – Sherlock.

He was literally staring at his ceiling in the dark, watching the strained little snowstorms of his nocturnal vision in the thin gloom, when his phone beeped on his bedside table. Wearing just his boxers but feeling unseasonably hot and uncomfortable, he giddily retrieved his phone, kicking his duvet off in the process.

 _I wanted to apologise in advance. -SH_

John peered at the eye-wateringly bright screen. He thought it best to keep his response playful.

 _Do you mean I should get the earplugs out?_ _: ) - JW_

 _It would certainly help. -SH_

Before John could figure out what to say back, he received a considerably more lengthy text. If he didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock was feeling self-conscious.

 _You know I said that when I have to indulge in bodily needs I do so with full vigour? That includes sleep, which is why you don't usually hear me...indulging in pleasure during the night. But this is an unexpected problem and I know from experience that if I don't deal with it now, it won't simply go away on its own. -SH_

John didn't know whether to laugh or baulk at what Sherlock was intending on doing. He'd given him fair warning, but it didn't stop John from straining his ears.

 _It would go away eventually, but yeah, I understand. - JW_

There was a minute of silence, and John was about to settle back as best he could considering the new tension in his body, that had successfully galvanised him away from any idea of sleep. His phone beeped once more.

 _Why do you seem to think that everyone is desperate to fall into bed with me? The only people who express their attraction to me are odd women, or criminals. Or odd women criminals. -SH_

The text took him by surprise, to say the least. Not only that, but the hesitation implied that Sherlock had contemplated before he'd sent it.

 _Sherlock, come on. You know you're a good-looking man. You attract far more than odd women criminals. Sometimes it's like fighting off the paparazzi with you. – JW_

 _It really isn't. You're the one who has partners, relationships. Did you know I've never been kissed? – SH_

John felt a sickly thrill of shock at the silent words before his eyes.

He had to take a moment to reply, because the sounds he heard that morning indicated a lot of pleasure. Pleasure like that must create a connection eventually? Sex without kissing... it made it seem so - what was the word? Selfish?

 _But you've been with the nameless man since before me. How can you not have been kissed? –JW_

 _He doesn't like me like that. I tried once. - SH_

John frowned, re-reading the message three times.

 _What? How could he not? That doesn't make sense.-JW_

 _I thought it seemed right to want to kiss him. But he reacted...negatively. -SH_

The thrill of anger that raced down his spine was shocking, if understandable. The more John was learning about this stranger, the more he didn't like him. It had nothing to do with the fact he was fucking Sherlock Holmes. At all.

 _That's a really cold thing to do. -JW_

 _Even_ I _thought so. Which should tell you something of how disappointed I was. -SH_

 _Maybe he's not a great guy, Sherlock. He sounds a bit like he's using you_. –JW

 _I'm well aware he's not a 'great guy.' If he was, maybe I'd be a happier person. But it seems to me that all the things I don't get from him, I get from you. Bar the kissing, of course. -SH_

John bit the inside of his mouth, squirming a little.

 _Why not find someone who would do both? -JW_

 _You of all people should know that's easier said than done. -SH_

 _Yeah, you got me on that one. But you haven't exactly been looking and surely it would be better to be on your own than with someone who just uses you for your body. -JW_

 _...John, I thought that chatting to you would maybe make my arousal subside. But I think's it's actually made it worse. - SH_

John opened and closed his mouth, blowing out a long breath from between his lips. Had he said something? He didn't think he'd said anything remotely sexy. Then again, what turned Sherlock Holmes on could be far different than a regular man.

 _Oh, sorry. You can stop talking to me if it helps. –JW_

 _Are you drunk? I'm quite drunk. I think I should have stopped talking ages ago. Talking about having sex with men. That's pretty gay - SH_

The bark of laughter was quickly stopped by the back of John's hand, but he was still smiling as he tapped out a reply.

 _It_ is _pretty gay, but I'm pretty drunk so it's fine. For what it's worth though, you're a good guy Sherlock. You deserve someone who makes you happy. Not just someone who makes you feel good for a little while. – JW_

 _Yes, I do deserve that. And kisses. -SH_

John rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

 _Yes, and kisses. Everyone deserves kisses. - JW_

 _He won't kiss me. : ( - SH_

 _Aw, you poor thing. Find someone who will, I'm sure the list is endless. – JW_

 _Would you ever kiss me? Do you like kissing? Is it unusual for men to like kissing? - SH_

John felt his mouth go dry, and for a moment he just stared at the screen trying to digest what Sherlock was asking him. How was he supposed to reply to that? _Carefully._

 _Kissing is an intimate thing, everyone likes it when it's done right. It doesn't matter whether you're a man or woman. -JW_

There was a long pause, and finally the underwhelming beep of another message.  
 _I'm going to try and masturbate now. Goodnight. - SH_

Well, that was blunt. And far too revealing for the heat now dotting around certain points in his body. He sent a feeble _'Goodnight_ ' text, but as he expected, there was no reply.

Instead he was left in the suffocating silence. A silence that was humming with the tension he was emanating.

He swallowed thickly, straining far more than he should have. Would Sherlock be as loud as this morning? The most pressing question though was not if Sherlock would be howling like earlier, but more along the lines of _why the fuck am I listening for it?_

* * *

He was starting to get impatient, when, after about fifteen minutes, he was feeling rather agoraphobic in the dark, seeing little to ground him in his own bedroom except the tipsy stars in his own vision, and the weak, jaundiced streetlight outside.

The anticipation of Sherlock's voice was getting unbearable.

Finally, that vocal anchor was thrown out to him, and a few soft grunts were distinctly heard below him in the black silence.

His whole body went rigid as a heavy rhythm started in Sherlock's baritone, but even as he listened, the voice was far deeper. Raw, guttural, as if Sherlock really couldn't care if anyone heard. John licked his achingly dry lips, his heart starting up a breathless tempo. He turned his body, facing away from the door, but that only focused the grunts to his right ear, making it seem louder. _Christ._

He was bemused to sense right away that something was different in Sherlock's tone. The voice that seemed to be practically vibrating through his own mattress sounded angrier. Frustrated. He thought he could hear the occasional murmured swear word.

Sherlock had said that he found it difficult to get himself off without assistance, and part of his brain gave him the clever idea to offer him help. That left him feeling dizzy, especially as Sherlock gave out another frustrated growl. Shit, it _was_ a growl, too. There would have been no other way to describe it. It sent a sharp jolt down his abdomen and John took a steadying breath, turning his head into the pillow.

A sexless voice in his head decided this was the time to remind him _, 'Good thing you don't have the same problem. You don't have 'preferences' like him. You don't need something inside you.'_

Sherlock's voice seemed to carry like an amplifier and he took a shuddering breath. "God's sake, Sherlock," he muttered into his pillow. Did the man have to sound so fucking sinful?

What was he doing to himself down there? Did he... have toys? Donated by the oh-so-considerate mystery man who refused to kiss him?

John felt slightly comforted in his distress by the hand that he had slid inside his boxers, which was massaging his turgid, slippery shaft reassuringly.

"..uck!"

John took a sharp breath, the heel of his hand running from base to tip, adding just enough pressure to ease the ache that had started. Sherlock's frustration was almost palpable as his yelps and grunts got louder. The cries were deep, and quivering with need, and John had the blinding urge to go and help him.

He stiffened at the next sound, a hard thump and a mumble of pain, which he knew, from bitter personal experience, was the sound of someone punching a wall. The other noises died down completely.

John _knew_ Sherlock hadn't finished. He knew he shouldn't do it. But he was tipsy and horny and he needed more from the detective downstairs.

Grabbing his phone with one hand and typing as quickly as he could, he texted Sherlock with the dizzy, drunken confidence that it would all work out, probably.

 _That sounded like it was good, now you can sleep : ) – JW_

John bit his lower lip as he heard a hearty scoff, his phone still hard in his grip as there was another thump. His body was rigid, almost expecting Sherlock to come storming up the stairs and punch him in the face, and with one hand on his cock he couldn't tell if that would be a bad thing or not.

There was a hard slam and John perked up his head, recognising the sound of a door. It was too muffled to be his own (because he might have, maybe, accidentally, left his own open) and John arched his back, waiting.

There were a few minutes of tense silence, until he became aware of heavy breathing that wasn't his own.

He sucked in a sharp inhale, his hand halting on his cock as he realised that Sherlock _wasn't_ storming up the stairs.

The man was already in his room.

Sherlock was almost lost in the darkness, barely a ghostly pale glow and a disembodied pair of lungs.

" _Fuck_! Sherlock, Jeez...What's wrong with you? You're supposed to be sleepy after an orgasm," John grumbled aloud, covering himself up and shivering with shock at the fright he'd gotten.

"I didn't ejaculate. Well...I didn't...couldn't orgasm. I don't always ejaculate. I can control that aspect if I choose to. It comes in handy," came Sherlock's voice flatly, as if he wasn't standing in the dark, in his flatmate's room in the middle of the night, talking calmly about controlling his semen output.

Deciding not to respond to pretty much everything the detective had just said, John spoke to the gloomy figure.

"Sherlock...look, I'm impressed by your ninja skills, but why are you up here?"

The detective paused, as if he didn't quite know himself.

John had lifted one of his knees so that his lower half was tented, an instinctive reaction despite the fact that it would have been almost impossible to see his hard-on in the blind darkness.

He wished he could turn on a light, to see Sherlock in all his ruffled glory. Would that pale skin be plastered in a flush? Those glossy curls all unkempt and messy?

"Sherlock?" he asked softly after another moment, worried despite himself at the detective's silence.

"I'm not sure, I'm sorry. Can I sit here for a bit? I won't make you uncomfortable. Well...not intentionally. This must be like a nightmare for you."

It could have been the alcohol, or the echoes of Sherlock's earlier frustration, but John found himself shifting up his bed a little.

"Sure," he said after another moment.

"Indebted," Sherlock said politely, and sat down. He took an impressively deep inhale, and then expelled a massive, world-weary sigh. "...This is a new experience, too."

"Not having an orgasm, or sitting on my bed?" he asked playfully, wanting to shake his flatmate from his slightly sombre mood.

Sherlock grinned in the dark, and John could hear it in a tiny wet click of lips and teeth. It warmed him exponentially.

"Sharing a bed with someone without anything sexual being involved. I've never slept beside anyone, either."

John let out a soft chuckle, shifting even further up the bed. If Sherlock was staying then the least he could do was actually give him some room. He probably should have questioned the fact that he was totally fine with having Sherlock sleep beside him.

"Take it Mystery Man doesn't stay?"

Sherlock hadn't made any suggestion of sleeping with John, but the doctor couldn't help but hope that it might happen. Hopefully after his hard-on went away.

"No, of course not. Far too intimate. ..I'm sorry John, I've been terribly rude and waltzed in here while you were midway through pleasuring yourself."

John let out some kind of strangled noise, before covering his eyes with his hand.  
"…It's fine. You're fine."  
What else could he say? Deny it? What would be the point?

"John...you forget that I can hear everything you're thinking," Sherlock teased. It had been a running joke ever since John had insisted early on in their acquaintance that the detective was a mind-reader. "And even if I couldn't, I can smell your pre-ejaculate."

"Yes, thank you," he said in a slightly clipped tone. "I would rather you didn't keep pointing it out, that would be great."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause distress. You can carry on if you want." The words were light, and carefree, and possibly the most shocking thing John had heard yet. He turned to the disembodied voice beside him in the gloom, and almost didn't know what to say.

"…Uh, no it's... I'm..."

 _Eloquent_ , his mind provided cheerily. Was he supposed to answer? Just carry on with Sherlock sitting there? His erection had only softened a little, and that was mostly due to the shock of his flatmate appearing.

"I really won't mind. It might even help my problem. The sense of somebody else close, losing control of their body, giving in to pleasure, sweating, moaning, helpless...it's a wonderful catalyst to climax."

John let his hand drop, blinking up at the detective. His body was humming with the drink still in his veins, in the pent-up frustration at being interrupted before, and the proximity of the man sitting next to him.

It wasn't as if he'd never wanked in the same room as a friend before. John was slightly torn until he realised that if Sherlock started enjoying himself, then those moans wouldn't be muffled by walls or floors or doors. They would be right next to him.

He had to swallow a few times before he found his voice to respond.

"…Okay."

"Oh, fantastic," came the pleased, rumbling response. "...Don't worry, I won't touch you. Um...would it bother you if I...penetrate myself?"

John heard himself take a sharp breath, and it took another moment for him to regroup his senses. He was blown away by the calm clarity of his own voice.

"…If you like."

This was happening. This was really happening. Really?

 _Oh, Christ_.

But John was already turning onto his back, letting his leg fall down so that the sheet that settled over him left nothing to the imagination.

"John?" came the low, familiar voice. It sounded tentative. How could that same voice be so open and shameless in pleasure? "...Are you sure this is okay? I won't ejaculate. And I'll try and keep the noise down."

There was a pregnant pause, before John delivered his reply.

"…No, it's okay. Don't hold back."


	6. Chapter 6

The words were heavy, almost as heavy as the breath shared within the silence. He'd said it now, made it painfully clear that he enjoyed Sherlock's moans and gasps. That he had been listening, rapt, as Sherlock was brought to his end by the Mysterious Stranger.

It all hovered, unspoken, in the stifling quiet of the room. Sherlock didn't speak, and nor did John, for fear this would end. He was uncomfortably hard now, his cock demanding attention, but he couldn't move until he knew that Sherlock wasn't put off by the admittance.

Those minutes felt like a lifetime, until Sherlock was shifting and adjusting his long limbs. John's eyes were drawn as the man shook off his pyjama bottoms, and his heart started a frantic beat as the weak light from his small window danced over pale skin. The doctor turned his head, letting his hand trail down his stomach and steadily move downwards.

He was slightly alarmed by a sudden wet sound, and peered through the gloom to see the very faintest glisten of saliva on Sherlock's long fingers as he removed them from his mouth, and began probing them knowledgably between his own spread legs without preamble or shame.

John's lips were parted, moving from Sherlock's wet mouth to the steady movements his fingers started to make. It was like he was testing himself, teasing. His hand reached his own erection almost subconsciously, squeezing the length as Sherlock's body started to squirm.

It was really astonishing that Sherlock hadn't even touched his cock. His free hand flexed repeatedly on his chest, scratching randomly at the smooth skin there. His other...well...John didn't need his eyes to know that he had pushed two of them deep inside, ( _he had already prepared himself downstairs - fuck_ ) and his sharp gasps and long sighs were starting up again with fervour. Perhaps he didn't need to touch his cock at all, John wondered. Sherlock _had_ said something about...Tantric techniques, and not ejaculating.

Those gasps, still so soft, were effortlessly hitting John right in his abdomen. He turned his head, determined not to let this become another shameful session of him getting himself off just from Sherlock's reactions - even though he knew it would be futile.

There was a small groan to his right and John ground his teeth, letting his hand start to move steadily over his cock. He moved it languidly, although he knew it wouldn't take much to bring himself over, not with the slight hitching in Sherlock's voice. He couldn't stop himself from glancing over, hissing as he saw Sherlock arching his back, forcing his arse against his fingers.

"Don't hold back," John murmured again, voice raw with excitement, and his flatmate's face crinkled with the anguish of pleasure, his head thrown far back and his black curls crushed into John's pillow.

"...John...oh...fu...ugh, if it's..." There was a noisy swallow, and wheezy breaths as Sherlock fought to enunciate.

"Is it good?" John found himself asking, his hand on his cock moving of its own free will, his eyes still watching his flatmate as he writhed from the pleasure. Sherlock looked like he didn't know which way was up already, his head turning against the white pillows. Christ, he painted a fine picture. John felt his own breaths catching, hitching, his thumb rolling over the tip and smearing the pre-come over his fingers.

Sherlock pushed harder, forcing his wrist at an awkward angle as he began prodding vigorously towards his own prostate, and that was when the real show started.

The detective's legs braced and jerked, and animalistic noises began searing out of that long throat. Every other sound was a pained grunt though, and every few seconds Sherlock's eyes would peer open and glance down between his legs as if he could pleasure himself better by watching what he was doing. John suspected though, that the bullseyes on Sherlock's prostate were more miss than hit.

It was deliciously frustrating just watching the man, his hand twisting to find that spot again and again, the few gasps and moans being the only indicator that he pressed it now and then. John wanted to help him, if only to ease that twisted pleasure on his features.

"What do you need, Sherlock?" he found himself asking, because he was at a loss, torn between his own pleasure and wanting to help his friend. It ended up with John still stroking his own cock whilst edging a little closer to the man beside him.

Sherlock began to try to speak, his voice torn, but it caught in his throat and he choked, gasping. He jolted hard as his forearm accidentally knocked against his swollen shaft, and he grated out a bubbly, deep cry. He fuelled his building climax with a few gusty, inelegant inhales. "I need...kiss me," he demanded, face contorted with the sweetest kind of pain.

John couldn't think of the repercussions, because that voice had always managed to set him into motion, to elicit a reaction. So before he could let any rational thoughts take over, John used his feet to push himself up and turned his body awkwardly.

Sherlock's heavy-lidded eyes were still bright, even in the darkness. One of John's arms was trapped underneath his body, the other unable to release his erection, so there was nothing to guide him but his face. His lips brushed the corner of Sherlock's mouth before he moved and they met firmly.

He froze at the sudden vibrating yell that deafened him, millimetres from his own face, before Sherlock doubled over in ecstasy, shuddering hard. Before he knew it, Sherlock was seeking comfort in his climax, clambering into him roughly, holding him tight and kissing him for all he was worth, still jerking and sobbing loudly through the pleasure.

It was an overload, clearly for the both of them, and John had no choice but to hang on until Sherlock rode the last of his orgasm. As the kisses turned languid, the mixture of Sherlock's lips, the smell of sex in the air, and the moans still falling from that mouth, John felt his own arousal reaching a peak.

"Shit, yes," he muttered, his hand moving between them. Sherlock hadn't released him, and John didn't care. His fist bumped awkwardly against Sherlock's hip on every upward stroke, and the jarring did nothing to stop the sparking pleasure. " _Christ_ ," he gasped, finding himself reaching out for Sherlock's lips again.

Sherlock was hot and damp to the touch, his lips plump and sleepy, but he smooched no less enthusiastically for it. The detective's arm wrapped supportively around John's bare back as the doctor rapidly neared his climax.

John broke away for air, his lips tingling from the contact as he turned to his back, giving his arm more room. He sucked in a sharp breath, a sheen of sweat forming on his brow as his arm moved enthusiastically. God, what he wouldn't give to hear Sherlock's moan again. Those deep, raw cries.

"John," Sherlock murmured tiredly, fondly, as he nuzzled against his doctor's strong shoulder, feeling every twitch of tendon and pulse of hot blood with the effort of pleasure. "John..."

"Yes...Sherl...yes, just like that," John pleaded, only briefly sensing the throb of embarrassment at the request.

The man was quick to realise what John wanted of him, because his name started to fall from those lips in quick succession, and the doctor was powerless to hold back his own moan.

"Yes, fuck," he bit out, almost writhing from the force of his looming orgasm. It wouldn't take much more, not much at all. Sherlock's cheek ran over his shoulder and he sighed into the contact. "More."

Sherlock had a spark of inspiration. Lowering his voice to its deepest, most mellifluous pitch, he kissed John's ear softly before murmuring, "When I climax...I _always_ think of you."

Those words completely undid him, his orgasm hit hard and coating his stomach in hot mess. He'd made some kind of strangled noise as he came, his hips rolling as he rode out his dizzying climax. His body slumped back as he gasped for air, his skin tingling as the aftershocks ran rampant through his limbs.

"Oh...yes," Sherlock was cooing in his ear, smudging his damp hair away from his hot forehead. "...That was marvellous, John. Marvellous."

John barely registered his bed-mate's affectionate babblings, but the attention was certainly not unwelcome. Sherlock was perhaps more starved of intimacy than he let on.

He was far too busy floating on his own high, the alcohol in his system hitting him harder now as his orgasm had wiped him of strength. He let out a small noise, some kind of recognition, his eyes blinking steadily as his brain raced to catch up with the words still being cooed in his ear. He ran his tongue over his lips, tasting something not entirely his own.

Oh.

 _Oh._

"John, can I stay? I didn't ejaculate, there shouldn't be any mess," Sherlock was mumbling against his cheek, nudging him repeatedly with his nose and making soft little noises of contentment.

John licked his lips again and let out a sigh, the last few tendrils of bliss dragging him down. He felt a yawn crack his jaw, and with the seeping warmth of Sherlock's skin against his side and the soft sheets beneath him, John couldn't find it in himself to move. He mumbled something incoherent before letting his eyes drift closed, his sake-addled mind lulling him into a sense of security based in the indulgent touch of the detective's skin.

* * *

John fell in his dream, mis-stepping on stone stairs and tumbling in a flurry of shock.

The moment he hit the unforgiving ground, he startled awake, alert and groggy all at once, staring at dizzy darkness and wondering at the heat of his usually-chilly room.

It took him a few steady breaths and a couple of moments to blink before he climbed from the bleariness of his mind. It was a fuzz that he recognised, and one that would hound him all day like a marching band. His mouth was dry, his eyes aching as he tried to figure out where the heat in his room was coming from.

It was only when he shifted his hips that he realised there was something hard against him. And soft. And breathing sweetly against his shoulder. John went still, the foggy memories from a few hours before coming back to him with startling clarity.

 _Ah...shit_. He'd de-flowered Sherlock. Sort of. Gave him his first kiss, anyway. And now the man was snuggled up to him like a lover.

John slowly turned his head, although he had to lean back so he didn't get a face-full of debauched curls. The man was quite literally curled around him; face on John's shoulder, legs hooked around his own, one arm strewn around his stomach. Shit. Not only had they shared a pretty fabulous wank session, but they had kissed to within an inch of passing out. John took a deep breath before biting down on his lower lip.

He had always loved being held by a partner in bed. It was _very_ new to have one larger, heavier, and with a somehow-adorable semi poking him in the thigh.

And now that he was more attentive, he realised that Sherlock was almost as vocal as when he was awake and going off like a firework. There were faint, wet little noises in his throat, and halted breaths and sighs. While he was wondering if he should try and adjust his position (to roll away? to turn and reciprocate the embrace?), the detective babbled against his shoulder, deep and warm and a bit damp with dribble.

"S'my...nngh..."

He lowered his head to try and listen, to try and pick out something tangible. Without jarring the man too much, John shimmied further down the bed, freeing Sherlock's face from against his shoulder. As he did there was a sudden gasp and an answering grumble as Sherlock curled impossibly closer to his body.

"Poison! Nnn...juice..."

John bit down on his lip to stop himself from giggling. The man was far too endearing, like a possessive cat.

"...Won't drink…not...mmmmmhhh."

John was truly tickled by the sleep-talk, and considered trying to engage him in conversation. A rather large part of his conscience prodded him none-too-gently. It warned him that the fact of still being in bed with the man was extremely bad.

Keeping him here and quietly falling in love with his sleepy self was an _absolute_ no-no.

But then that other voice, the one that mimicked Sherlock to a tee, was telling him to simply melt into this. To welcome it. John was so torn that he almost didn't catch the next deep murmur.

"Won't... nngh no... _can't_..."

John frowned, telling himself that in the darkness of the room, with Sherlock asleep, there would be no one to condemn him. It was a selfish, absurd realisation, but there it was. Before he could think, John moved the arm caught under Sherlock's neck until he ran a few fingers through the man's curls, almost trying to soothe him.

God, those curls...they were amazing. He had dated women with curly hair, but he avoided running his fingers through it, as he inevitably ended up with a sticky residue of hairspray or wax or some other nonsense, and if he tried when it was 'au naturel,' his date would pout and preen and tell him to leave it until she's had a chance to 'control' it.

He knew for a fact that for all their gloss and shape, Sherlock did little to his hair apart from use a prohibitively-expensive conditioner. And the result...it was soft and smooth and crinkly and... _wonderful_.

Sherlock's breath hitched and gasped, before emitting another drawn-out moan, the arm around his waist tightening.

"...John... idiot."

"…Really? Why is John an idiot?" the doctor whispered, a little louder than he would if Sherlock had been awake. He indulged happily in fiddling with the baby curls at the base of Sherlock's skull, pulling them gently and then stroking them back into place.

Sherlock shifted, almost as if his subconscious had picked up on the sound of John's voice and was stammering to form a reply.

"…Idiot...j'mpers n' tea...toast..."

"Yes, he likes those things. But you think he's an idiot?"

A long sigh, almost dreamy.

"...no... my John..."

"John the idiot," the doctor chuckled, and relinquished the petting of Sherlock's hair to smooth his hand down what felt to him like a vast plane of flesh, as he traversed the detective's back. It was an odd thing to think about, but he had never been in bed with anyone so damned... _long_.

He was just an endless stretch of skin and subtle muscles, but he was warm and hard in all the places women were soft. Sharp, yet gentle in his own way. He wondered briefly what it would be like to see all of him, spread out, touchable. That thought only led to another and John felt a small strand of heat curl up his neck.

"Hhmm... cold..."

John awkwardly, carefully, reached for the covers and hauled them up a few inches more, and tucked them tightly about them as best he could, creating a deep, dark, body-heated cocoon.

He tried not to think too much about any part of Sherlock below his collarbone. He hadn't _seen_ anything during their...session, but he was more than capable seeing with his fingertips, if he was _really_ curious...

 _Stop it,_ he chided himself. _You_ definitely _don't have permission for that._

Instead, he cleared his throat slightly. "Is that better?"

Sherlock turned his head and sighed, muttering against his shoulder before John realised that the movements were a little too frequent to be a sleeping turn. His body shifted and John froze, pursing his lips as Sherlock took another breath and turned his face up to John. The doctor angled his head so that the detective wouldn't notice he was awake.

"John?"

Ah shit, his voice was deep and scratchy and so achingly innocent that John couldn't help but turn his head. "…Hm?"

"If I was about to drink poisoned apple juice, you would stop me, wouldn't you?"

John feigned a hefty yawn, and shuffled as if to get more comfortable. "...Depends. If it was me who poisoned it in the first place, I wouldn't."

There was answering muffled chuckle and John felt it curl in his chest, purring gently. He pulled the duvet up further around himself, glancing over at the man.

"You would never poison me."

"No, I wouldn't. Everyone would know it was me," he snickered softly. "Can't say the same about you."

Now that Sherlock was awake, John was hyper-aware of his own hands, and avoided all extraneous touch, anything that could be construed as romantic.

Sherlock shifted a little next to him, and he could see a sleepy smile on the man's face. It was similar to his post-orgasm smile, but it was... different. Relaxed and comfortable in a way John had never seen him.

"Nonsense. I wouldn't poison you without a suitable antidote," he muttered, sighing again and tightening the arm around his doctors' waist. John worried the inside of his mouth, briefly wondering whether or not Sherlock realised they were in bed, naked (John partially so), and pretty much a tangle of limbs.

"Such confidence," John grinned, secretly thrilling at the fine wrinkles at the corners of Sherlock's pale, sea-green eyes. It was difficult to ascertain their true resplendence in the yellowish street light coming from his window at what felt like 4am, but he took comfort in the familiar colour, cat-like shape, and fond warmth. "...You're not...too hot are you?" He asked, hoping Sherlock would pick up the unspoken _'You're aware that we are not quite as drunk anymore and there is no good reason for us to be laying together like this?_ '

"No," Sherlock replied lazily, shifting his hips so that he was flush against the doctor and John ground his jaw. Subtlety, he reminded himself, was not something Sherlock picked up on when it came to John.

"Oh, that's... good."

"Mm-hm."

"How...um...how was your first time?" he quipped, trying to ease the stifling intensity of Sherlock's body and mind in bed beside him.

Sherlock pulled his head back a little and John chanced a look over. The man was watching him with a scrutiny that made him want to squirm and preen at the same time. _Jesus_ , what this bloody man could do to him.

"My first time? Well, if you insist on knowing..."

John cocked his head, frowning slightly but didn't have a chance to get a word in before Sherlock started up again.

"I was convinced I was mentally and physically prepared, but in truth, it...how do you say? 'Hurt like fuck,'" he laughed. "Luckily I was able to discover and hone my pleasure, or I would have given it up for good. I've only ever received, you see. I imagine penetrating somebody else isn't a painful experience at all."

John's jaw felt unhinged as he looked over at the man, a small coil winding in his abdomen.

 _Jesus Christ_.

"I, uh... I meant your first kiss."

"O-oh," Sherlock replied sheepishly. His pale eyes widened, and he looked a bit guilty. Raising his eyebrows in hopeful supplication, he met John's gaze. "I'm really very sorry. I shouldn't have asked for that. I was...overwhelmed."

 _I know the feeling._

John smiled faintly, perhaps even a little shyly. "It's... okay. You don't have to apologise. It was my fault the second time." John offered Sherlock a small smile, his emotions flickering and twisting inside him.

"...Yes, I suppose it was," Sherlock replied, his high cheekbones crinkling with a bashful grin. "But, to answer your question, my first time was perfect. Better than fantasy." There was no hint of teasing or untruth in Sherlock's soft, open expression.

John wasn't quite sure what to do with that confession. He was happy that Sherlock had enjoyed it, ridiculously proud that he had been the one to give it to the detective, and completely torn at what this was doing to his sense of reality.

"I'm glad."

Then Sherlock's grin widened, his face finally crumpling into that genuine, slightly goofy smile that John was secretly potty about, and that seemed to flick a switch in his head. A switch that meant his body would no longer listen to reason, but instead react instinctively and do whatever seemed most right and good and natural.

At that moment, in the dark, in his bed, cocooned with his flatmate, there was only one obvious thing to do.

And that was to kiss Sherlock.

The doctor turned his body in one swift movement, onto his side so that the detective's face was directly in his line of sight. They were already wrapped around each other so he could hardly get any closer. Instead he pushed himself forward, bringing their lips together with a little more pressure than he'd intended. It had been a quick decision, followed by a quick action, and God only knew what the consequences would be.

Sherlock didn't pull back, but he was clearly taken by surprise. After John had moved away, only moments later, the detective made a tiny noise as he released the breath he'd been holding. He didn't recall asking John to do it again. Why did the doctor feel he had to oblige him once more?

John's brain was racing with everything brilliant and wrong about what he'd just done. He had initiated this. He had been lulled into a warmth born from body heat and residual sleep, and now he had no excuse. His face was still mere centimetres from Sherlock's, and the doctor had absolutely no words to give the man in way of explanation.

"Thankyou, John," Sherlock offered, after John said nothing. "That was lovely, too. I liked it. But I don't want you to force yourself just because you think it will make me happy. I mean, it _will_ make me happy. But...don't be a martyr," he chuckled, giving John a quick squeeze.

John was glad of the darkness and the sheets that still surrounded him, as he was able to partially cover his flushed face. What could he say, really?

 _I did it because I wanted to. Because you're adorable when you're half asleep. Because you confuse me to within an inch of my life. Because I am enjoying this, so much._

"I feel I should repay you. For giving me two brand new experiences. That doesn't happen to me very often," Sherlock mused. "Certainly not twice in one night."

John felt his heart jump into his throat and his brain completely fell over itself searching for a reply.

"Uh... I..." _Oh shit, bugger me. What do I fucking say?_

"Remember what I said, John, about pleasure. Think of the orgasm you had a few hours ago. Then quadruple the ecstasy of that climax. I can teach you. It's the least I could do. And all I need to do is talk. Completely 'hands-off," he chuckled.

A shiver ran down John's spine.

Lessons, in orgasms, from Sherlock.

His mouth was still dry, as was his throat. That voice, purring into his ear, whispering ways to bring him over the edge again and again. His cock was quick to answer, and John shifted to lift a leg, tenting his lower half again.

"Anyway. Let me know. And try not to have a crisis in the meantime. You know how tiresome I find them," the detective huffed, amused.

John let out a small burst of air, a soundless huff of laughter. He couldn't give the man an answer, not when his brain felt like scrambled eggs. He should have politely declined, because that was what any sane man would do. But how could he not consider it? How could any part of him _not_ want it?

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied at last, his voice rough and slightly ragged.

"Thankyou for answering, John. I thought I'd broken you already," Sherlock ribbed him, and John was about to chuckle when it occurred to him to wonder what he had meant by ' _already_.' As if breaking him was a task for a later date. Fuck.

He couldn't process all of this, not at half 4 in the morning, not after a night of mixed drinking, and not after more than one heated kiss from his best friend. He took a steadying breath before shifting himself. He turned so that his back was partially facing the man, unable to relax while those lips were smiling and those eyes dancing.

"I'll think about it, but I have to sleep."

John pulled the cover up over his shoulders, letting his muscles start to relax. He was drifting off when Sherlock moved, curling up against his back and letting out a contented purr.

"Goodnight, John."

The doctor felt a squirming in his chest, trying his damnedest not to sigh as that voice tickled his ear.

 _What the fuck are you doing?_

That, he decided, was a bloody good question.


	7. Chapter 7

John was surprised to find, upon waking late the next morning, that his hangover seemed not to be quite as devastating as he was dreading. He suspected, however, that it was probably because he was still a bit drunk.

He was _not_ surprised to feel totally unrested and groggy. He knew that if he had actually managed to relax into Sherlock's firm, warm embrace, and empty his mind of deeply troubling thoughts, he would have had the best night's sleep he'd had for a long time.

He had, however, stayed tense in both mind and body, even as Sherlock had stopped talking to him at arse o' clock in the morning, and slipped into an enviably deep sleep behind him, complete with endearing, snuffling little snores.

As his mind began to unravel itself from the haze of tense sleep, he started to become aware of a few things. One, the small hairs on his lower abdomen were pulling sharply, as if they were stuck there (which made him shift uncomfortably as he remembered just what that reason was).

Two, the light filtering through his dank window was grey and too bright to be anything close to morning, which would mean he had little time to get ready for his afternoon shift at the surgery.

And three, his bed was devastatingly devoid of awkward, lanky warmth.

John would have been tempted to put it all down to a drunken subconscious fantasy, if it wasn't for the bittersweet scent of his flatmate, and two errant black curls on his other pillow. Because really...surely only his own depraved yearnings could dictate a line like "I think of you every time I come"? Sherlock must have been taking the piss.

But shit, what if he really did, though?

It was a stupid thing to even think of, even it stroked his ego in a way he didn't quite understand. He found himself shifting in the sheets, trying not to wince at another small tug on his abdomen. He needed a shower. He needed to wash away the remnants of something he couldn't wrap his head around. God, but the sounds that man made. It was sinful, and it did things to his insides it should never have done. Not really.

He was meandering in his own thoughts, slowly sitting up and trying to mentally prepare himself for what would likely be a slightly-too-cold shower. Pushing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, he took a deep, fortifying breath, shivered a little in the chill of his empty bedroom, and promptly jumped at the sound of a loud thump downstairs. Immediately on the alert, he stood, poised and listening carefully. A muffled, deep-toned giggle, somewhere on the floor below.

Was Sherlock in another post-orgasmic bliss? He was definitely... animate, after climaxing, so he had a feeling that he would naturally end up downstairs in some kind of chaos.

Where Sherlock went, chaos followed.

He sighed heavily, before there was another giggle. This one was certainly louder, and as John moved to his bedroom door, his head peered around the cusp only to be taken aback by a loud cry.

"...said no."

John froze where he stood, because his brain was scrambling to catch up. That... was _not_ Sherlock's voice.

He was in absolutely no doubt of the presence of _two_ men, when Sherlock's giggles and Mr. Mystery's voice sounded in tandem. The stranger's voice had quietened a bit, but John heard random words.

"...wasn't in the...trust you?"

A soft, indulgent mewl (an apology?) from Sherlock, and a deafening smack, that seemed to ricochet through the cramped flat like a pistol shot.

John took a sharp intake of breath, stepping into the hallway before he could really help himself. Their next words were too quiet for him to make out anything coherent, but he did catch the long moan afterwards. _Oh fuck,_ he thought quickly as there was another resounding crack.

"...you...huh? Not... playing fair, are we, Sherlock?"

He didn't know whether to storm downstairs and strangle Mr. Mystery for daring to hurt Sherlock, or for daring to be the one to spank his best friend.

"Yes..." came a muffled response, followed by another loud crack. Now he was closer to Sherlock's room, he could make out a little more. A few groans and harsh breaths.

"You think fucking another man is allowed, huh?" Another harsh slap. John felt his hands tighten into fists, straining to listen for Sherlock's reply.

"I like him... _you_ do it all the time," Sherlock taunted, and John could hear the sarcastic, inflammatory tone he knew well.

There was a low, drawn out chuckle as well as three fleshy thuds. John was moving down the stairs before he could stop himself, but was drawn short at the long moan he recognised from Sherlock.

" _I_ am allowed. _You_ are not."

"Don't you think I've had enough?" Sherlock's strained, but still slightly belligerent voice entreated quietly.

John swallowed thickly, toeing down the stairs as lightly as he could. When he reached the living room, he was close to chewing off his lower lip.

"You can take far more."

"...Just...no more inside me, though. Please? I'm already..." Sherlock was sharply cut off by another whiplash-like crack.

"...But _this_ one's so big..." The other man, who John had able to deduce practically nothing about (except that he had an unremarkable accent), sounded disappointed.

There was a loud gasp and John felt a rush of spiking anger run up his neck. Sherlock had said no more, and this fucker was pushing it? He had an image of some (annoyingly gorgeous and tanned) man hovering over Sherlock, forcing him to take more.

"Come on, one more..." purred Mystery.

John then heard a tinny, relentlessly-loud alarm beeping, and there was a tense vacuum of activity. If the...lovers were timing their trysts...perhaps that was the end of the session for Sherlock?

That made him wonder if he actually _was_ paying for this. He'd never asked, therefore Sherlock had never denied it. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't notice the sound had gotten louder.

Mumbled conversation behind the door, something dropping to the ground...It took John an embarrassingly-long time to recognise the sound as that of his own watch alarm, the volume increasing urgently every moment he ignored it.

He felt his eyes widen before he grabbed the face, squeezing the button at the top before padding quickly into the kitchen. He was stood close to the wall again, listening for any sign that the two men in the other room had heard the alarm.

"...Did I imagine that, or did that signal that the time for your pampering is over? Time for the rough stuff, Sherlock."

John bit his lower lip as he felt the cool surface of the wall against his cheek. That had been _pampering_?

"Don't start... with that one..."

Christ, he had to get ready for work. But...what was he supposed to do, just leave Sherlock here? The detective must have been aware that he was around. He hadn't asked for help, so presumably he was enjoying whatever was happening. Just...one noise, and he could be sure his best friend was in no danger.

The detective soon obliged. "Oh, it...mmh...deeper, just... _Oh_!"

John took a sharp breath, that voice in the throes of passion becoming alarmingly familiar. His body recognised it, too, and he had to turn his forehead to the cold wall.

"Look at you, spreading wide for me. You want more, don't you, Sherlock?" purred the stranger's voice, and John had to swallow thickly.

That was _quite_ enough of that, Captain. If he didn't go to work and earn some money, how else was he going to keep his flatmate in obliging prostitutes and robust sex toys?  
The jokey thought did nothing to comfort him.

There was another hearty moan and John found himself snapping to attention. They both obviously knew he was here - they would have fucking heard his watch, and they were _still_ going. Therefore, he was trespassing, and he needed to stop. He took a step away from the wall, shaking his head, even as more words floating through the wall.

"Is that good?"

"...ng... yes!"

"Oh, no. No, you're not coming yet."

"Bu...ugh...need...please!" Sherlock's tight, wheezy begging was something extraordinary. The other man's voice was unbelievably calm and careless.

"No, the penalty for cheating is...one hour."

The sound that followed the blunt punishment could only have been described as strangled cry, mingled with frustration and disbelief. It made John's stomach knot unbearably.

Taking that as his cue (that, and his nearly full-mast erection), the doctor stoically straightened, and left the rampant couple to it. _Not my boyfriend,_ Sherlock's voice reminded him gently.

It was almost easy for him to ignore the sounds emitting from the detective's bedroom, because they were being drowned out by the sickly, deafening buzz of his own arousal, shame, and anger. It was an acid-tasting concoction of emotions, a flavour almost too complex for his palate. But then, Sherlock was always insisting on opening him up to new experiences.

He was reluctant to go into the bathroom, but he knew he at least needed a wash. It would bring him closer to the other' room, of course, but he could pretend that the intermittent sighs, moans and slaps were simply figments of his imagination. He closed the door to the bathroom firmly, almost trying to make it clear he was here and the two of them should _please_ stop making sounds that were burning a trail from toe to cheek.

 _I can't help it, John. I've_ tried _to muffle myself for you._

Jesus, that was not helping. The day Sherlock took up residence as his inner-monologue narrator was the day he had officially started losing his mind.

He gave himself the most cursory of ablutions, slamming a few cupboards and his toothbrush cup. By the time he was done however, he had little chance of surpassing the detective's volume.

His movements were sharp, hard, and probably a bit too vigorous as he started to clean his teeth. The volume only increased and the doctor danced from foot to foot, glancing down at the bulge in his boxers. With a small growl (caused by a particularly high cry), John turned and slammed his hand to the shower, setting the spray to tepid, before finishing his teeth.

Just his luck that the boiler had decided to fuck up and make the water more 'cool' than tepid. Fuck, but that was _not_ helping his mood. Nor were the small, sombre thoughts that were somehow getting heard amongst his righteous snarls of anger.

 _I bet he doesn't kiss Sherlock goodbye._

 _Even if he asks._

John shook off his boxers, his mind still fixated firmly on the antics next door.

 _He probably doesn't hold him_.

"No! Ah... _fuck_."

John ground his teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 _Or show him any fucking mercy at all. Prick._

 _Then again, maybe Sherlock doesn't go to him for mercy. Maybe mercy's not what he needs._

John's eyes widened slightly.

 _Sherlock might need to be controlled... dominated._

 _But…he also wants to be kissed. He says he tried intimacy, but was rejected. He calls it 'making love.'_

As ever, the man was the ultimate conundrum.

He supposed, if this kind of sex was all Sherlock had ever known, he might have craved the other side (even though it sounded as though he was enjoying this side quite a fucking lot). There was a high pitched wail, accompanied by another sharp smack, and John practically jumped under the spray. It made him gasp, the cold droplets running over his overheated skin.

Still...this was, if Sherlock was to be believed, his one and only partner, ever. Under what possible circumstances had they met? Why had they started having sex? If this...aggression was the only kind of sex Sherlock knew, then maybe he really didn't understand the term 'making love.' Unless Mr. Mystery had told him that this was what intimate, loving sex was like.

John had no problem with BDSM, he had himself indulged in it, and it could of course be as loving and intimate as any other kind of sex. But he was having serious doubts as to the kind of man Sherlock's 'friend' was. If he was taking advantage of him, using him, damaging him in any way for his own sick kicks, then there would be hell to pay.

John would make sure of it. He would find this guy, and teach him what it meant to -

 _To what? To give Sherlock what he'd apparently asked for? To give Sherlock the release he craved, even if it was completely backwards?_

He didn't think he'd ever felt so torn and frustrated, and the soft little mewls coming from the other room was not helping anything. He stepped further under the spray, putting both hands to the cold tiles so that he couldn't be tempted to bring any more attention to his lower half than he deserved.

When it came down to it, it was really none his business who Sherlock shagged, or how. But it _was_ his business to make sure he was safe. To protect him.

Sherlock claimed that John knew his lover, but Sherlock had an eidetic memory, and for all he knew the mystery man was a cashier John glanced at in a bank queue once, and should obviously remember forever.

One thing was for sure - first chance he got, he was going to discover who this guy was, and check him out.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't be sure exactly how long it took for the steady hum of the shower to stop, and the resounding thump of the front door as it sounded closed. The detective finally let out a long breath, the searing lines striping over his back still pulsing strongly as the stinging started to lose its edge.

He nudged the back of his hand over the burning, hot-to-the-touch slaps on his left cheek, and marvelled at the numb pain that seemed to have settled over his whole body. He frowned at his fully-clothed room-mate indignantly when he tasted blood on his bottom lip.

The other man met his glance, and shrugged. "Sorry. You started yelling, your teeth caught it. Didn't mean to."

Sherlock let his bland expression hold the other's soft brown gaze for a little longer, causing the other to shift slightly before Sherlock gathered his risen and rosy limbs, slinking off the bed with all the grace he could muster in his semi-exhausted state.

"I assume the rate we agreed on before is still sufficient?"

"It's your call." The other man checked his mobile, before stretching and standing, hands in his pockets.

"Two hundred and fifty it is, then."

Sherlock's voice felt scratchy from exertion, his body raw and inflamed, but overall his mood was peaked. He turned his bare body towards his discarded trousers, bending to swipe his wallet with only the briefest grimaces on his face.

He handed over a handful of pink fifties, and tried not to smirk as a memory resurfaced to tickle him. The first time John had been in his wallet grumpily looking for Sherlock's National Insurance card (even though he had insisted he didn't need one, and hence, didn't have one), he had sworn creatively at seeing the notes therein. He had proceeded to complain that he couldn't remember the last time he had seen a fifty-pound note, and hadn't seen so much pink since he'd help paint his baby sister's bedroom.

Thinking of John in this moment, as pleasant as it was, did not fit within his negotiations. He turned to the well-built, dark blond in front of him and held out his hand impatiently.

"Your services were adequate, if a little ambitious."

The detective felt the corners of his lips twist, ever so slightly, as the young man unwound from his tight pose and let a long, predatory grin spread over his features.

Sherlock cleared his throat and stepped back.

"...Anyway...I'm sure you have... _other things_ to attend to," Sherlock deflected. The other man approached him, money still shamelessly clutched in hand, and ruffled the detective's hair.

Sherlock jerked his head back, incredulous, only to gain a smooth chuckle from his companion.

"See you around, Sherl. Call me next time you need a good scream, eh?"

The brunette rolled his eyes dramatically, and then startled in shock as the slightly-shorter man attempted to lean in for a peck. Sherlock frowned. "I thought you charged extra for kisses? The 'intimacy tax,' if I recall," he spat.

The blond cocked one perfectly arched eyebrow, and Sherlock couldn't help but mentally compare the differences between him and the army doctor.

"This one's free," he all but purred, leaning close before Sherlock could step away. The brunette felt a soft brush to the corner of his lips but before he was able to respond, the other had pulled away.

The only thought that Sherlock seemed able to compute at that moment was how shell-shocked he probably looked. By the time he had the wherewithal to formulate a reply, the other man was on his way out, trudging downstairs.

The front door slammed for the second time, and he sat down heavily on his bed, before drawing in a hissed groan of pain at the pressure on the fresh, damp welts on his backside.

 _See you around._


	8. Chapter 8

John's feet were heavy as he finally walked back into the flat early that evening, his mood light but body weary. He rubbed his jaw as he turned to hang his coat up, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension building there.

"Sherlock?"

John paused, irrationally listening for imminent orgasms, but heard nothing. Peering into the kitchen, he saw Sherlock at the sink, turned away from him, washing out some sort of apparatus.

"Evening," he announced cheerily. It was barely 5pm, but night had definitely fallen on this bone-numbing, freezing January day.

Sherlock hardly even twitched in response, far too engulfed in soaking what seemed to be some kind of fragile contraption in suds.

"Did... you have a good day?" John tried again, perhaps a little too happily, but fuck it - he was in a good mood for once. "I did," he followed quickly, talking for the sake of noise.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. It was mostly expressionless, apart from the tiniest hint of a question at the end, which John recognised well. It meant that Sherlock was vaguely aware that he had been asked a question, but wasn't listening, so picked a random 'yes' or 'no' answer.

John let out a long sigh, deciding that he would keep talking anyway. Sherlock might not have been listening, but he could pretend as if he was. As if he cared.

"You know that new nurse I told you about, Laura? Well I was talking to her and - fucking _hell_ , Sherlock!"

John felt the mug he'd picked up fall from his grasp as the detective turned slightly, reaching for a tea towel only to have the fading sunlight catch his face.

"...Did you just remember where you recalled her unusual surname from? Her sister was your patient. Herpes," Sherlock said blandly. "...That's two mugs in two days that you've broken, John."

John's jaw was still slack as the man took his silence quizzically, turning to face him a little more. John took the two strides in quick succession until he stood in front of his flatmate, both hands reaching up to cup the man's face.

"What the fuck happened?" he snapped, his eyes taking in the blooming bruise on his left cheekbone and the scabbing cut over his lower lip.

Sherlock abruptly shut his mouth and halted his instinctive movements, convinced as he had been that John was striding across and grabbing his face in order to kiss him.

It was probably a good thing that the handmarks on his cheek would camouflage any other...conflagrations in his skin.

"...Got a bit carried away," he mumbled, shrugging. John's cold hands felt marvellous on his burning face.

"This is more than getting carried away, Sherlock, _Christ_."

John's fingers ghosted gently over the bruise, the skin still flushed and warm to the touch. There were no sharp lines or shape to it, so John had to conclude that it had been a physical blow.

"This is not good, damnit. This is not..." John clamped his teeth together, hard.

"It's part of the...process," Sherlock tried to explain. "But sometimes he forgets himself."

A flush of anger rose up John's cheeks, and he had to take a moment to steady his breathing before he completely erupted.

"Forgets himself? It looks like he beat the shit out of you, for fuck's sake. You can't tell me _that's_ enjoyable." John pressed his finger into the bruise to emphasise his point.

Sherlock winced. "I would have preferred it to have stayed exclusively on my body. I think perhaps he was annoyed that somebody had found out about us. He'd rather no-one knew."

"What?"

John felt something inside him snap, and now he was positively seething.

"Are you _shitting_ me? That is not a fucking relationship, what the hell are you playing at? Letting someone do this to you, Sherlock? That is so many shades of messed up. You're not a fucking punching bag!"

"I've told you already, John. It's _not_ a relationship. I don't expect kindness from him."

"Don't expect... Jesus _fucking_ Christ!"

The doctor turned, his foot catching the broken mug on the floor, before he viciously ground his foot into the porcelain pieces. The crunch did nothing to quench the consuming rage taking over him.

"This is _not_ sex, Sherlock. It's not even..." He span on his heel and turned to face his flatmate, the detective meeting his gaze almost pliantly. John let out a growl. "Sex is about trust and respect and _that_ is not respect. Do you even enjoy it? Really? Or are you just doing what you're told?" he spat.

Sherlock's face finally showed some emotion, furrowing in anger, his grey-green eyes cold. He turned and briefly lifted his shirt, giving John a flash of a series of sore, red welts and handmarks. They clearly continued down into his trousers. " _This_ is fine. Not on my face. I made it known I was displeased." He turned back, snapping at the doctor cruelly. "What happened to 'it's none of my business, Sherlock?'"

John felt his eyes widen as he saw the risen welts over Sherlock's back. His indigo eyes darkened as his hands tighten to fists at his sides.

"That's not okay!" he snapped, his voice low and dangerous. "And it's my business when my best fucking friend is being slapped about like a prime fucking steak!"

"You don't understand it, John, so you hate it. By that reasoning you should hate everything in the world, including me. Do me a favour and leave early for that drink. You're boring me with your plebeian dictates on what perfect, ideal sex is. As if you'd know anything about that."

John ground his teeth and stalked forwards, so much menace in his face that the detective took an instinctual step backwards, hitting the counter as John crowded him. John raised his arms to either side of the man's waist, caging him.

"Sex is not perfect, Sherlock," he growled, his anger engulfing him. "It's messy and awkward and fucking brilliant when it's done right. When you have your partner _writhing_ underneath you, _begging_ you to fuck them. Do you beg him, Sherlock? Do you want him so much that he can't wait to touch you, and give in? Hm? Can he make you squirm without hitting you? Because _that_ is sex. Bruises made without knowing how."

"...Uh-" Sherlock's speechless response took them both by surprise. The taller man looked baffled, intrigued, and sick, all at once. He glanced down at the doctor who was effectively pinioning him, and bit down nervously on his lip, before sighing in pain at the deep cut there.

John felt the power settling on his shoulders like a blanket, but it was wrong and made up in anger. He narrowed his eyes, following Sherlock's face as it contorted in shock. He wanted to scare the man into realising what his Mystery Man was doing, but now he was so close, he could feel the heat radiating off Sherlock's skin.

"You don't _need_ whips and slaps for sex," he breathed, his voice dropping even lower. "Not unless it's what you _want_. What you _beg_ for."

John ran his tongue over his lower lip, realising all too suddenly that he was actually enjoying the mystified expression on the detective's face.

"Answer my question. Do you enjoy it? Even when he leaves you, without so much as a kiss?"

"...The orgasms are perhaps...not as satisfactory as they might be with added...intimacy," Sherlock conceded awkwardly, his pale eyes wide and staring down at his firecracker of a flatmate.

"Of course they're not," he agreed darkly. "Sex is nothing without intimacy. That's where half the fun is. This?" John reached up and ran his rough thumb over the cut on Sherlock's lip, knowing just how close he was and yet it hardly seemed close enough. "This is far too one sided. And it's not enough for you, is it? Is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was painfully aware of the pulse throbbing in his throat, _knew_ that John could see it as clearly as a waving white flag. The more he fought to temper his breathing, the more embarrassingly-strained his voice sounded. "It has to be."

"Why?" he purred, his voice drawing out. "If you found one man to meet certain needs, why not find another who could meet them all?"

John felt some kind of tingling in the back of his skull, something akin to warning bells. But he was on a roll, something taking over him. Something he couldn't quite understand.

"Someone who would hit you when you needed it, and was still there to kiss it better."

"…...Who says I haven't found him?" Sherlock murmured. There was a tense, aching silence.

And then John's phone rang, a shrill, shocking sound.

The detective took the opportunity to duck away and stride towards his room. After he had slammed the door behind him, John heard a faint, deep-toned herald. "Have fun tonight."

The doctor found himself staring after the detective for long moments after he had gone, before digging the heel of his hand against his eye socket and pulling his phone free.

"…Laura, hi. Yeah, I'm..." His eyes strayed to Sherlock's bedroom door again and John felt anger tighten in his gut, turning to steel. "I'm looking forward to it too. Yeah - yeah seven o'clock. I'll meet you outside. Okay, yeah, I'll see you then."

As he lowered the phone in his hand, John muttered a curse as he shifted his hips.

What the fuck was happening to him?

* * *

John was trying to make his overpriced pint last, wanting (needing?) another one, but Laura had only had about two sips of her slimline gin and tonic. To be fair, the conversation was good ( _normal_ ). But he was still unsettled from his earlier spat with Sherlock, and didn't quite know how to dissipate his lingering tension and headachey confusion, except by drinking himself into dizzy amnesia. And that was _not_ a wise idea.

His eyes lingered on her lips as she spoke. She really was a beautiful woman, he decided.

Her face was soft and heart-shaped, with dark green eyes flecked with amber. Her lips were plump, painted a pastel pink, and she wore her dark brown hair in lose tendrils around her long neck. John should have been falling over himself to impress her, but he still couldn't shake the dark anger from earlier. It had taken a lot for him not to rant to her about the infuriating detective, for some clarification that he was being fair. That his outburst was justified.

If there was one thing he knew that was guaranteed to quickly turned a date sour, regardless of how it had begun, it was discussion about his flatmate. It didn't matter what the context was.  
He felt his phone vibrate, and took it as a cue to stretch his legs a bit. Sod it, he was getting another drink.  
"Anything I can get you?" he asked politely, offering one of his most winning smiles - his 'fiend' smile, he had been told. The one that wouldn't melt butter, but could get you out of your knickers in about five seconds flat.

Laura's eyes widened slightly, flickering over his face for a moment, her words stopping mid-breath before her features relaxed into an intrigued smile. She took her glass and drained her drink in a manner of seconds, setting it down with one delicately curved eyebrow.  
"Another G&T, if you're buying." There was a teasing edge to her tone, and John felt the air around them shift ever so slightly.

 _Definitely getting laid tonight_ , he hummed happily in his head.  
Making his way to the bar, he flicked out his phone after ordering, and hesitated when he saw a message alert from Sherlock. To read, or not to read

John cast a glance behind him, noticing that Laura was watching him with a small, almost appreciative smile. She hadn't got her phone out, which from his experience was a good sign. His phone vibrated again in his hand and he internally cursed Sherlock with every colourful word he could think of before he opened the message.

 _I'm sorry John. I should concede to your knowledge of all things to do with physical love. Your lecture was very affecting. - SH_

John let out a weary sigh, leaning on the counter as a fresh pint was put in front of him.

 _I'm not an expert, Sherlock, but I do know when the lines are crossed. Your man crossed the line. -JW_

 _I think I may have made a very big mistake, John. -SH_

 _To be honest, that doesn't surprise me. But I'm here for you Sherlock. We can talk about it later, okay? – JW_

 _Not now? Are you having sex? - SH_

John bit the inside of his lip to stop himself smirking, looking up as the bartender came back with Laura's G&T. He pulled out his wallet, feeling her eyes on his back and quite enjoying the shiver of anticipation that ran over him.

 _No, I'm not having sex. Not yet, anyway. I've got to get back. We'll talk later.- JW_

 _I may be out. - SH_

 _That would probably be a good idea.- JW_

 _Even if I end up getting beaten like a 'prime fucking steak?' -SH_

 _PS Joke - SH_

John let out a harsh breath, the anger he had thought gone crackling just under his skin.

 _Not. Funny. - JW_

He didn't get a reply. Cursing under his breath, he retrieved the drinks, and made his way back to his stunning date, trying to banish the stubborn cloud that was darkening everything like so much bone-deep drizzle.

He cheered a little when he noted that Laura was getting appreciative looks from a few other patrons. _Tough luck, pricks._

* * *

He couldn't exactly say whether it was the growing amount of alcohol in his system, or the back and forth rhythm of their banter that slowly turned the atmosphere around them heavier. It could have been John's forward remarks or the confidence that he seemed to radiate, fed by anger and repressed sexual frustration.

It didn't quite matter, he realised, as he moved to the toilets only to be pulled back. Soft, delicate arms wound around his neck and he was met with a tangy taste laced with sweet lipgloss and stammered breathing. He kissed her back forcefully, something he rarely did but was unable to stop - and the gorgeous woman in his arms seemed to go pliant under the assault.

Her hands grabbed his shirt, his palms ran over the luscious curves of her backside, and John felt the heat rise within him. It took a mere twenty minutes before they were crashing through the door of 221, grabbing at each other as he eased them up the stairs. Part of him relished the difference in her sweet, high giggle just as he opened the front door and they piled through, a mass of limbs and coats.

He was laughing back into her mouth, breathless and eager. _God I've missed this_.

"...Can I take you to bed?" He asked throatily, one hand supporting her back, one kneading promises into her thigh.

Laura only answered with a soft moan and a wicked smirk, leaning against him. Part of his brain registered that she was so soft compared to what a m-

 _No. Nope. Do not fucking go there_.

John added a gentle to pressure to her spine, hissing as her hip wriggled against his groin. She let out another sweet chuckle before John stepped back, turning with his hand in hers only to be stopped dead by the figure folded in the corner of the sofa.

"Oh... Sherlock."

Sherlock stood loftily, and with enviable elegance. As soon as John saw what he was wearing, he knew nothing good was going to happen.

"John," the detective rumbled in his deepest, most dangerous voice. His purple shirt was artfully undone at the throat, and his hair was rumpled to glossy perfection.

John found his eyes wondering languidly over Sherlock's frame before soft, delicate hands snaked around his waist and the steady pressure of Laura's body pressed against his back.

John turned his head to laugh even as his face flushed, because he could feel Sherlock's eyes on him.

"Weren't we going to the bedroom?" she hummed, letting her tongue trace the shell of his ear.

"Haven't you heard it's not wise to touch what you can't afford?" Sherlock asked her flatly, raising his voice above the silence.

John froze as he felt the body grinding against him jerk to attention. They both slowly turned their head towards Sherlock, who was watching them with a flat expression. John frowned as Laura put her face over John's shoulder.

"Excuse me?" she replied, her tone clipped.

"Lovely as he is, unless you're prepared to die for him, as I am, then it's probably best to relinquish him right now." Sherlock made no extraneous movements, just stood, looming gloriously, hands on slim hips.

"Sherlock," snapped John, his tone harsh and face confused. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Claiming you." That was all he said, still glaring carelessly at the woman who was gawping, now standing straight and having extricated herself from John's jeans.

John felt his eyes go wide, unable to comprehend the dark blankness in his flatmates' expression.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" asked Laura, and John didn't know if it was aimed at him or Sherlock.

"Are you mentally subnormal?" Sherlock replied impatiently. "It means exactly what it sounds like. I'm making you aware that he belongs to _me_. I would suggest pistols at dawn, but given your apparent feeble-mindedness you'd probably turn up with a spade at midday."

John heard the clack of her heel as she stepped back, eyes wide as she looked between John and Sherlock.

"Is...is he serious? John, what's going on?"

"John, please explain to her that your lover is the jealous type. I don't seem to be getting through," Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.

John sucked in a sharp breath, finally reacting as Laura turned her eyes to him, horrified.

"Sherlock, stop it! Laura, he is _not_ my lover, don't listen to him." John turned on his friend, glaring over to him. "Stop it Sherlock," he seethed.

"If I'm not your lover, what do you call climaxing together in bed last night? Surely that must count for something. Even if I weren't, I'm doing you a favour. Her qualifications are false, she's only working with you to pinch drugs for her junkie sister. The one with herpes."

John felt some kind of noise escape his throat as he battled with suffocating embarrassment and indignation.

"That's not - we didn't - what the fuck, Sherlock!"

John turned on his heel to face Laura, her body not holding the same shocked stance. Now she looked baffled, her head cast down, lips parted, eyes furious. And she was looking directly at Sherlock, her anger directed towards him.

"Laura?"

The brunette turned, her face going lax as her gaze turned soft, weepy...apologetic.

"…Are you fucking kidding me?"

"John, throw her out before the waterworks start. I can't abide histrionics."

That did it.

"Laura," said John, his voice incredibly deep, dangerous, and seeping anger. "You'd better go."

John's eyes never left Sherlock's, even as his ex-date made some kind of squeaking noise, her eyes wide before she launched herself from the flat. As soon as the door was closed, John closed the three feet between them, his arm pulling back to be lashed out again, his quick fist only just catching Sherlock's chin. The hit was as gentle as a punch could be, and it barely made the man stagger.

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" roared the doctor, fighting the urge to swing again.

Sherlock's jaw dropped, his pale eyes bright with a sulphurous green fire. "It's not okay for _him_ to punch me, but it's fine for you?" He gave John a hearty shove, nearly sending him sprawling to the floor.

John caught his balance and faced the man again.

"Well I can kind of see his point! Certainly makes _me_ feel better."

The shocked hurt in Sherlock's expression almost made John regret what he had said. Even as he watched the detective's face crinkle in distress, swallowing down his grief, John prepared himself for another assault.

The next thing he knew, a long finger was pointing at his face, jabbing accusingly. "What did you think I meant when I said I'd made a mistake? What kind of _idiot_ are you, John?!"

"Apparently a great one!" he spat back, wrestling with guilt and anger and regret at his words. "What the hell were you doing? Was that necessary? What is w _rong_ with you?"

"I _hate_ to see it, alright John?! I _hate_ it!" Sherlock bellowed, face reddening, chest heaving with rage.

John was taken back by the rampant fury in his normally-stoic flatmate.

"Oh, so it's fine for you to be moaning and groaning and fucking all hours of the day, but when _I_ do it, it's a case for sabotage?!"

Sherlock railed a bit at that, blinking as he snarled for breath, fists clenched tight. "You really have no idea, John."

"Pack it in, you cryptic shit. Got something to say? Fucking _say_ it."

"I already have, John! You're just too thick to understand what I'm telling you!" He shoved John again, this time hooking his leg with a foot to ensure that the smaller man crashed to the floor.

John let out an undignified huff as he collided with the hard ground, barely managing to blink before his muscles tensed instinctively and his body jerked to attention. His eyes caught sight of Sherlock's leg and without warning, John brought his knee into the crook of it with enough force it buckled. Using his hand, John shoved on the opposite hip, throwing the detective off balance.

"Don't start a fight with a fucking soldier," he snarled, getting to his feet.

"You're just a hoodlum, John. A bloody hothead," Sherlock spat. "It disgusts me that Mrs. Hudson is right!" He surged at John, quickly elbowing him in his good shoulder and then bodily hurling himself on the doctor in an unbelievably-heavy mass of solid limbs, hands and hair.

" _Jesus_!"

John only just managed to stop himself from going arse over elbow as Sherlock hauled his entire body weight on top of him, taking a few awkward steps until he was slammed so hard against the wall that he felt a crack of pain up his spine.

" _I'm_ a fucking hothead?" he roared, pulling his hands free. He hooked a leg around Sherlock and used his mass to shove him downwards, but Sherlock had a grip on his shirt and they both went crashing onto the floor. John ground his teeth against a jarring in his knee, before shoving Sherlock's long arms above his head and pinning them there.

"You're an absolute fucking lunatic," he raved, bracing his arms against the struggle of Sherlock's limbs.

Sherlock was seething, yelling in fury, wrenching his head around and kicking his legs. Feeling that he'd better secure his position before the admittedly larger and stronger man bucked free, John sat down hard on his hips, straddling him. The detective was practically frothing at the mouth in frustration, yanking his arms and acting like a spooked horse, trying to throw John free.  
"You're just wasting your energy now," John panted down at him.

Sherlock rocked his hips, arched his back, his upper lip curled over his teeth indignantly. John held the position steady, his muscles tightening and releasing under the incarcerated vehemence of his flatmate.

"Calm the fuck down," he muttered at last as Sherlock's movements started to slow, leaving the taller man panting heavily.

John took the time to get some much-needed oxygen too, and they both relented in silence, ribcages swelling and sinking with exertion, exhales noisy.

"Right. We all done here?"

Sherlock finally seemed to realise where he was, those piercing eyes snapping up to his own. His expression was sharp, his lips pulled tight.

"Well? You finished?" asked the doctor again, unwilling to let the man go in case he got a smart tap to the jaw.

Sherlock suddenly looked very tired, drained, and despondent. Under his perfectly-preened hair and mouth-watering suit, he was a little too grey, his eyes a little too limpid. "...I think so."

John nodded, trying his hardest not to focus too much on the reddening skin of his jaw. He didn't know what to say, how to even bring about an inkling of civility after the fight they just had. Instead he released Sherlock's wrists slowly, moving himself upwards into a sitting position.

"...I wish I could say 'déjà vu,'" Sherlock tried, looking up at his doctor from his prone position, huffing with weak laughter.

John frowned for a moment before he glanced down, realising he was still straddling the man. Feeling deflated and exhausted, John let out a breath of laughter before pushing himself to his feet. He turned but stopped, looking down at Sherlock before offering the man a hand. He was infuriating, confusing, exhausting and tiresome, but... he was still Sherlock.

The detective took it gratefully, groaning as he got up, and patting tentatively at his sore back. John could have kicked himself, he had to go and forget that the man had fucking wounds all over the place.

"Come on Sherlock. I'll clean them up for you. Then...time for a chat?"

The detective winced and balked, but nodded nonetheless. "Time for a chat."


	9. Chapter 9

John kept his eyes on his hands as the moved about the medical box, pulling out gauze and alcohol while the only sounds in the heated tension was the rustling of Sherlock's shirt being draped over a chair. He bit the inside of his lip, his hands stilling as he tried to pluck up the courage of coming face to face with Sherlock's sexual exploits.

"Just sit there," he murmured to the detective as he caught a glimpse of him hovering to the left.

"...I'm sorry I called you a hoodlum, John. You're so much more than that."

John chuckled at the roundabout compliment, before turning, and sobering at the reddened, damp mishmash of wounds on his flatmate's otherwise immaculate skin.

Sherlock sat backwards on the chair, the wooden spine pressed firmly against his chest and both arms wrapped around the top. He was watching John steadily and the doctor let out a small sigh.

"I'm sorry I punched you," John said finally, dashing a generous amount of acrid alcohol onto a gauze and moving to stand behind his flatmate. "But you did deserve it," he added lightly, unwilling to break the truce while he had bare skin under his fingers.

"Possibly," Sherlock shrugged. "Listen...um...there's more of them. Under...well, further down. If it wouldn't bother you, could you do those too?"

John felt his hand hesitate just above Sherlock's left shoulder blade where a particularly dark welt was prominent. He had to force his eyes to see this as a medical problem, that he was giving Sherlock medical assistance. If he didn't, it would all go to shit.

"Yeah," he said, clearing his throat so his voice was a little steadier. "Sure. Let me get these ones first."

"Thankyou," came the rumbling reply. The detective flinched and eased out a small noise of discomfort as John began work. Immediately, Sherlock began to orate, and John suspected he did it to distract himself from the pain, which, try as he might, he couldn't simply delete.

"...I'm not just trying to get you to rub my bum, you know. I could probably do that easily enough without actually enduring physical injury."

John let out a surprised laugh, shaking his head at Sherlock's teasing words (which had a ring of certainty that he brushed over).

"Is that so?" he asked teasingly, clucking his tongue before moving the gauze down the patchwork of Sherlock's back.

"You've already kissed me. Shared in my climax. A bum rub wouldn't be too extreme, relatively speaking."

John narrowed his eyes even as a flush rose in his cheeks. He couldn't think of a witty enough response so instead he continued his methodical swiping with the gauze. Once Sherlock's back was clean and glistening, he took a steadying breath.

"Okay, turn around."

Sherlock gingerly stood and turned, settling back down on the chair with a pained sigh. John was surprised to actually be seeing him half-dressed for once. The man wasn't exactly keen on clothing, but even when he wore just a sheet, it tended to swathe him from head to foot.

His eyes turned back to the table again, taking new gauze to douse before leaning forward. The lashes wound over his shoulder, across the collarbone and to his ribs, making John angry and sympathetic at the same time.

"Do you really enjoy this?" he couldn't stop himself from asking, his curiosity peaked as he leaned forward to move the gauze over taut skin.

"No," came the quiet reply. "I asked for it. I miscalculated," Sherlock mumbled.

John pursed his lips, shaking his head.

"You should never have to do anything someone forces you to do. This guy? He's bad news."

"He hasn't forced me to do a single thing, John. I was the one giving orders."

John felt his lips part in surprise, his eyes moving up to catch Sherlock's. Everything about the startling green depths told him that was true, and John just couldn't wrap his head around it.

"You're... Not going to do this again, are you?" John poked one of the welts gently to show what he was referring to.

"...I didn't achieve what I was hoping for," Sherlock said enigmatically, sighing. "Will they scar?"

John broke the gaze and glanced down, having to step closer to be able to study the skin. His fingers trailed up the middle of Sherlock's ribs, before he shook his head.

"No, but they'll possibly bruise. It'll take a while for them to clear up completely."

There was a hum of acceptance. John steeled himself, then spoke again. "Can I ask you a personal question, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes swept upwards, one of his delicately curved eyebrows twitching as he fixed John with an intent stare.

"Of course."

John met his stare bravely, and then patted Sherlock's waistband, asking for permission to tend to his other injuries. The detective nodded, and John stood back to let Sherlock rise and start to undo his zipper.

Taking advantage of the distraction, he asked quietly, "This...guy. Don't get offended, but...is he a prostitute?" _Is that what they called males? Christ, he didn't know._

There was nothing but silence for a few long moments, and John had to wonder whether Sherlock was deliberately ignoring him or whether the man hadn't heard. Just as the trousers dropped to the floor, John glanced up. Those eyes we watching him with something akin to wonder, and scepticism. It was an odd look.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, he is." The reply was simple and without much emotion.

"Oh." _Oh_.

 _Holy shit._

John was glad he'd cast his eyes away before Sherlock spoke, but now he was paralysed with looking at Sherlock's thighs.

"Oh."

"You can't be that surprised, if you asked in the first place."

"Well it's just... One thing to wonder and another to know, I guess. Sit back down."

John was alarmed when Sherlock sat, and made to shuck off his dark blue underwear as well. When the detective sensed his discomfort, he raised an incredulous eyebrow. "You can't very well do it through the fabric. Besides, if you ruined these, I'd have to hurt you. These are my 'pulling pants,'" he chortled.

"Pulling pants?" John asked, still slightly shocked, but cleared his throat and forced himself to be professional. He nodded sharply, taking more gauze and trying not to look as Sherlock pulled off his pants. He licked his lower lip before he held his gauze at the ready, eyes staying strictly above the belt.

Sherlock had swiftly turned, leaning with one hand on the chair, presenting his bare backside to the doctor. It was clear that this was where the full brunt of the punishment had been meted out. The entire plane of milky flesh was a burning pink, and practically radiating heat.

John let out a long breath before turning his attention to the swollen and aggravated skin. The first touch of the gauze to the skin just above Sherlock left buttock caused the detective to jump, the muscles in his arse tightening as he clenched.

 _Oh, fuck my life_ , He thought darkly.

"So, um...tell me about him. When did you meet him? Was he...working at the time?"

 _Smooth, Watson._

Sherlock let out a long hiss as John brushed over the deepest welt - this one actually bleeding slightly.

"It was not a chance meeting, John, if you must know. I don't often go on the prowl for prostitutes."

"No, I...no. How did you end up...I mean, with you...paying him? Not being funny, but you're the last person on earth who'd have no choice but to pay for it."

Sherlock turned his head to glance at the doctor briefly, leaving John with nothing but a glimpse of thoughtful eyes.

"I required a man with certain skills, availability and eccentricities. It just so happened the man I found charged for his services. It was - ah!"

The following deep, whine of pain was dangerously similar to that of intense pleasure. John berated himself harshly for the thought, but it was difficult to stay objective in the circumstances.

"I'm sorry. You've got some open ones here. What did he use?"

Sherlock had tensed, his back curved as his knuckles stood white against the wood of the chair.

"Crop," bit out the detective, the word dragging out to end in another deep moan. John's hands only faltered briefly as he paid attention to the worst welts.

"…I admit I'm not used to this, John," Sherlock continued, through gritted teeth. "This isn't actually routine. As a matter of fact...this is the first time I asked for it," the detective told him, still speaking to dampen the numb, yet utterly-consuming twinges of pain.

"Well I think you went a little overboard, to be honest," he said, moving the gauze to the underside of his right cheek. He had no choice but to get to his knees, realising that should someone walk in on them now, there would be no way to deny their compromising positions.

"Yes, that's evident in hindsight," Sherlock agreed. "...This situation is...most unusual, John." _Understatement of the century_. Then, out of nowhere, "...You were better off without that woman."

John felt his shoulders tense, before he rolled his neck from side to side attempting to ease it. The anger he'd felt from that morning was now doubled, certainly not gone, and Sherlock was stoking the embers.

"Says you."

"...If you thought otherwise, you would have gone after her."

"Just because she wanted to shag me to try and manipulate me, doesn't mean I didn't want to shag her too."

There was another pause. Sherlock couldn't have been more vulnerable, and yet he chose to murmur the most inflammatory thing yet.

"Do you ever think about having sex with me?"

John balked at the question, his hand stilling (consequently right on the mostly fleshy, tender part of Sherlock's arse) before he took a long breath.

"Are you really trying to piss me off again?" he asked slowly, unable to move. Be it from shock or anger, he didn't know.

"No. I'm just curious. Since we're having a deep conversation, and all that."

 _Deep... Oh dear fucking Lord._

"There's not much I think of during sex apart from ' that feels fucking fantastic' and 'oh right there'," he muttered, moving down the back of Sherlock's warm thigh.

"I don't mean _during_ sex. I just mean...does it ever cross your mind? What it would be like if we were lovers? How we would be, physically?"

"Why are you asking me this, Sherlock? You know I'm not..." Now, he couldn't really finish that sentence with a straight face, could he? After his admission last night about his crush on Matthew Danes, and then the mutual wanking session. John took a deep breath, moving to the other side and still running the gauze slowly over Sherlock's skin.

"You don't have to lie to me, John. Of _all_ people."

"I'm not lying!" he snapped a little too quickly, his hand pressing a little too firmly on a particularly risen red line.

"Fine," Sherlock replied huffily, dropping the enquiry. John could _hear_ him sulking. He also picked up the tight hitch of breath as Sherlock endured the new pain.

John worked in silence for a few moments, careful to keep his touches gentle but thorough. When he'd cleaned the battered flesh, a sudden thought came to him which hitched his heart into his throat and caused his voice to come out a lot higher than he'd expected.

"Anything on the front?"

He nearly swallowed his tongue when he saw Sherlock look down at himself, his voice muffled. "Nothing I can't handle. A bit...inside, but I can deal with that."

 _Inside_.

John made some kind of noise before he somehow managed to get to his feet.

"You'll... Ah, you'll have to take relatively lukewarm showers for a couple of days. I'm going to put some antiseptic cream on the worse ones. You should be able to sit properly in a day or so." John swallowed the gathered spit in his mouth, trying his damned hardest to keep his voice even.

"Thankyou. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again...John? Will you keep an eye on them?"

"Y- yeah, okay."

Sherlock straightened up and carefully slipped back into his 'pulling pants.' John was eyeing the glossy, pink buttocks that were disappearing from view, and almost didn't catch the next words.

"You'll have a reprieve for the next few days. My friend is staying with his partner for a week. So you can give the earplugs a miss."

John snapped his eyes up just as Sherlock turned, before nodding.

"You need some rest too," he added without thinking. "I don't think your arse could-" The doctor bit off his words with a sharp breath, his thoughts running rampant as he tried to still his racing heart.

"...Could take any more pounding," Sherlock chuckled, actually blushing a bit. "Come on John, we're all adults here. Well, _technically_ I am one. Though I rely on you to keep up appearances."

John sniggered before setting Sherlock with a small smirk.

"Says the man who shoots at walls when he's bored."

Sherlock huffed with laughter. "If I didn't keep you in a constant state of chaos, you'd lose interest and abandon me. _Leave_ me," he corrected smoothly.

John slowly crossed his arms over his broad chest, giving the man a flat look and arching an eyebrow.

"Oh yes, I completely forgot you've 'claimed' me."

"Well, you _are_ mine," Sherlock shrugged. "Even if not in a sexual sense. You're the closest thing I'll ever have to a life partner," he informed him calmly.

"So that means I can never have a partner, does it?" John asked steadily, his temper just about quenched from the wrestling match ten minutes before.

"I would really rather you didn't. But of course, I can't stop you. I can try and stop t _hem_ , though," he laughed, his face crinkling up, and a hand going to his cupid's-bow mouth.

John huffed out a breath through his nose, keeping his composure although having Sherlock laughing at him certainly wasn't helping.

"That's not going to happen, Sherlock. I'm still going to date, you're still paying Mr Mystery. You can't just lay claim on someone. This isn't the Dark Ages."

Sherlock suddenly stopped laughing, and stared at John, with the alarming fixation he dedicated for the apex of a particularly-wonderful case. John froze.

"So if I stopped engaging with my friend, and you weren't dating...then it would be okay?"

John opened his mouth but couldn't form the words to respond. He was far too dumbstruck by the intensity in Sherlock's face, the way his eyes pierced through him as if he were on the verge of closing a case. The final moment when everything came together - all it needed was that last piece.

"Sherlock..."

"...Oh. I...That must have been inappropriate. Sorry," Sherlock blustered, scratching his glossy curls and avoiding John's gaze. Well, almost avoiding it. He flashed him one confused, pained look that nearly broke John's heart, before the detective sat down on the sofa, turning on the TV loud and trying to appear enthralled and utterly-focussed on it.

John stood there, motionless for a good two minutes. Everything the man did just confused him. He couldn't pick up on subtle shifts, he wasn't great at deciphering deeper meanings. Sherlock wasn't giving him anything to work with, and John had never felt so fucking stupid.

He finally let his shoulders slump, shaking his head. Without another word, the doctor turned and moved up the stairs, closing the door to his bedroom with a soft click.

John was mildly surprised to then hear Sherlock running across the flat and into his own bedroom below. A few seconds later, a panicky-sounding text infiltrated the phone in his pocket. He retrieved it with caution.

 _John are we still friends? – SH_

John frowned, perching on the edge of his bed.

 _Of course we are, Sherlock. - JW_

 _But you just went to your bedroom. Silently. That's usually A Bad Thing. –SH_

 _I thought the conversation was over. – JW_

A short pause.

 _Can I sleep with you? Not like_ that _. - SH_

John cocked his head, staring at the bright screen for a few moments. He supposed he couldn't be surprised at Sherlock's shift in mood, or the sudden vulnerability of his flatmate. He'd punched him in the face, after all. And now apparently he was Sherlock's property.

He didn't understand what was shifting between them, or how things had spiralled out of control so quickly, but he couldn't quite get that hurt expression from his head. Something was going on in that brilliant brain that he may not understand, but it still niggled his guilt reflex.

 _If you want to. – JW_

He almost laughed at the immediate thump of Sherlock's feet, racing across the flat and upstairs in what felt like seconds. The detective screeched to a halt after flinging open John's door, perhaps realising that throwing yourself onto your flatmate's bed in happy anticipation of snuggling might be a Bit Not Good. At least, that's what the shocked look on the doctor's face was telling him.

John let out a long breath, the tease of a smile on his lips, before he got to his feet and shucked his jumper and shirt. He pulled off his jeans, leaving his boxers and his thin t-shirt before climbing into his sheets. When he looked up, Sherlock was still hovering by the door. John gave the detective a questioning glance. _Well?_

Spurred into action, the detective pulled at his shirt buttons and fly at once, rather ineffectually. John watched him struggle without elegance out of his designer gear, before Sherlock made his way to the light switch in his underwear, tripping on his trousers on the way.

"I'll turn it off?"

John pulled the covers over his lower face a little more to hide his smirk, before nodding. Sherlock was rarely so... befuddled. It was endearing, and almost made up for what the bastard had cost him tonight. The room went dark following a small click, and John took a breath as his sight fought to adjust. The bed dipped mere seconds later, and the doctor forced his body not to go rigid.

"Okay?" he asked after a few silent moments.

"...Yes," Sherlock replied in the dark, getting under the covers. He had only been in this bed once, but that was more than enough for him to have memorised every aspect of this part of John. "...I won't masturbate or anything. Unless-" There was a faint click as the detective shut his mouth hurriedly.

John felt a flash of a smile wash over his features before he turned his head. His eyes hadn't adjusted to the darkness yet, but he could see the faint outline of the detective next to him.

"Unless what?"

There was a considerable pause, punctuated by a soft, undecided sigh and a few gentle swallows. "Unless you want me to."

John bit the inside of his lip, wondering why an immediate 'no' hadn't sprung out of him. Instead he lay there with his pulse almost visible under the sheets.

"Uh..."

Sherlock quickly began to explain, and defend his statement. "Well, you were expecting some gratification tonight, and it was my fault that you're not in bed with the fake nurse. And I think you...like it."

John opened his mouth, turning in the bed until he lay on his side.

"Like what?" he probed, his voice small.

"…John, will you, please, do one thing for me? Tell me, without ambiguity, whether it arouses you when I pleasure myself."

John pursed his lips, feeling as though the darkness could shield him from the truth of his words.

"Yes."

A huge, gusty exhale from the detective surprised John, and he heard him muttering. "Thank god for that."

John should have felt the urge to laugh, or tease, or shake off the admission. He couldn't. It felt too real. He felt too exposed.

"Well then...is it okay if I do it now? Being in bed with you is very affecting. I admit that this might have been an ulterior objective of mine. You do have a remarkable effect on me."

John's mouth went impossibly dry, and he couldn't do much but nod. His eyes were intense, taking in as much of Sherlock as he could.

"Speak, John. I need to hear it. Tell me what you want me to do for you." A cool hand reached out to gently cup John's face. Sherlock waited.

John took a shuddering breath, the hand against his skin drawing him back to some kind of rationality.

"I... The noise," he tried feebly. "The noises you make. Lots of... noise."

"It pleases you to hear the sounds I make?" Sherlock pressed, running his thumb fondly across John's cheek. "Remember - speak."

John let his eyes flutter closed, pushing aside his rising panic and giving in to the sensations moving over his cheek. "Anything," he rasped. "Do anything that makes you... moan."

The thumb began to caress his bottom lip, before teasing at the corner of his mouth.

"And if I ask for you?"

John's eyes flew open, still lulled by the sweet deep tones of Sherlock's voice. "To do what?"

"To blow my mind."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


	10. Chapter 10

_Blow my mind._

John couldn't breathe. He couldn't take a breath, and yet he was so light-headed that he was dizzy. Sherlock's breath mingled with his hand as it caressed his skin, and everything felt too hot, too tight. The detective's words hung on the air. He replied bravely.

"…How?"

"John. Captain John 'Three Continents' Watson. _Use your imagination_."

John blinked, panic tussling with his curiosity as he wracked his mind for what he was supposed to do.

"I don't... Christ, Sherlock, help me out a bit here."

"John, come now. Don't be coy. It doesn't suit you. I bet you know _exactly_ what you'd do. You're a considerate lover who _enjoys_ giving pleasure. I bet no-one's ever faked it with you. They've never needed to."

John could feel heat rising in his cheeks, up his neck, down his chest. A shiver ran down his spine at Sherlock's words alone, and like the hot-headed man he was, John chose to rise to the challenge.

"So... Do you want me to kiss you?" he asked slowly, reaching up to trace the contours of Sherlock's lips. "Or touch you?" His finger ran over Sherlock's jaw, on to his beautiful pale neck.

"I would call that 'a good start,'" Sherlock replied, with an amused huff of hot laughter against John's face. "The first man you were attracted to...you wanted to sleep with him...you planned ahead. You weren't going to just 'see what happened.' You _planned_ to pleasure him, you _needed_ to know what would make his eyes squeeze shut and his mouth fall open. You needed to be confident in the knowledge that you would _tear his world apart_ in the best possible way."

John let out a breathy sigh, that voice washing over him in waves. Sherlock knew he needed that voice, and he was teasing him with it.

Deciding that he was fucked either way, John shifted himself in the bed until his face was mere inches from Sherlock's.

Dismissing the idea of running away screaming (John had never run away from anything), he moved forward as Sherlock turned, obviously intent on meeting his lips, but John swerved. He brought his lips to Sherlock's jaw, on the blooming bruise there. He kissed once...twice...before bringing a snippet of Sherlock's skin between his teeth.

John was astonished by the shuddering thrill he felt as Sherlock let out a baritone, wordless yell, followed by a sharp, groaning inhale of body-heated air.

It wasn't enough.

He moved his body further, rolling Sherlock onto his back. His mind felt fuzzy, his body taut as a piano string. His lips moved onto Sherlock's neck, and he took the opportunity to give him a sharp nip.

"Ugh! Yes, yes! Oh, _god_ , John," Sherlock was sobbing, as if in disbelief. "This, yes, _this_..."

John was spellbound. Sherlock's strong reactions to the smallest stimuli were truly hypnotising. The doctor felt large, heavy hands land and rummage shakily in his short hair, clearly trying to resist pushing his mouth even closer.

John gasped as Sherlock finally, _finally_ fucking made some noise. He groaned in response, shifting his body until they were in a very similar situation that they had been in downstairs. Except this time, rather than just pinning Sherlock down, his teeth were biting into his skin and Sherlock was thrashing for a very different reason.

John groaned again, a deep, reverberating noise, moving his tongue purposefully over Sherlock's pulse point.

The doctor's ears rang with Sherlock's hoarse cries; the only respite he got was when the detective keened from the exhaustion of rapture, or whined through his wheezy breaths.

John groaned and rolled his hips, pressing down on Sherlock with each one. Sherlock's hands dug into his back as the doctor braced his arms on either side of the detective's shoulders.

"More," he whispered over Sherlock's gusty breathing. "You need to give me more."

"Ditto, Doctor," Sherlock gasped, shamelessly writhing, pushing his rock-hard arousal into John, throwing his head back and crushing his crisp curls.

Breathing became of secondary importance to that voice, and John was powerless to disobey. He shifted his position over Sherlock's lap, curving his back until his achingly-hard cock was pressing into the curve of Sherlock's groin, gasping as he rolled his hips again. He could feel Sherlock's erection pressing into his own hip, and it was delicious and confusing and fuck it all he needed _more_.

"OhJ-John…quick, get them off, I need to see it," Sherlock babbled, yanking unsuccessfully at John's waistband, panting noisily.

The desperation in that voice seemed to kick-start his own, and with a surge of adrenaline the doctor eased off of Sherlock to lay down at his side. They both instinctually, hastily, twisted to face each other.

John didn't think as he shucked the boxers, wrapping a firm hand around his cock and stroking hard from base to tip.

"Fuck..."

"No, give it to me," Sherlock muttered impatiently, and John might have been offended if not for the warm hands scrabbling for and grabbing his shaft greedily. "Shit!" came the deep, sharp curse in the dark. "John! Put the light on, I can't see it. I want to see it."

John gasped, his back arching as the hand not belonging to him tightened, the doctors' hips bucking from the contact. " _Jesus_ ," he muttered, already so close. His own hand flew to Sherlock's where it held his cock firmly, flexing to force the detective to move.

Sherlock's hand didn't budge, and with a frustrated grunt John turned, reaching over and scrambling for the bedside lamp. The light was briefly blinding as John hissed, rolling back to his side and rolling his hips again.

"Now - please, fucking _please_."

There was a faint, croaky noise, and a couple of sharp hitches of breath from the detective. Sherlock clenched his teeth and shuddered, his hips bouncing against his doctor and repeatedly jabbing him with a damp, silk-covered hard-on. He fought to keep his pale eyes open, straining to fixate on John's thick, wet, blood-hot member, pulsing and twitching in his hand.

"Ugh-oh...John...so...oh...beautiful," he gasped, huffing the final word out in a stuttery wheeze.

John groaned and threw his head back into the pillow, both hands wrapped around Sherlock's now. As the man wouldn't move, the doctor rolled his hips, shuddering at the flood of sensation crashing through him.

"Please," he bit out. "You need to move. Christ, what do I need to do?" He was bordering on begging now, too far gone to stop, his orgasm looming. It wouldn't take much, Christ it really wouldn't.

"John," Sherlock murmured urgently, eyes wide and bright as he finally stared at his doctor's sweat-damp face. "You're going to come...I want it...I want you to gift me with it...rut against me and kiss me and claim me and mark me with your seed," he babbled breathlessly, sounding near to hyperventilating with excitement.

It was hard to pick out individual words over Sherlock's babbling, under the harsh breath shared in the dimly lit room. The few words he did pick out told him exactly what he needed to do.

Without hesitation, John turned his upper body and moved down a little, one hand reaching out to cup Sherlock's jaw, mostly for navigation as his lips met the other man's plump mouth eagerly. He kissed messily, furiously, bucking his hips to get what he needed.  
As Sherlock's hand finally moved, John cried out sharply against Sherlock's lips.  
"Oh God - Oh fuck - please, _yes_!"

Sherlock jolted and whined as John stabbed him relentlessly with his turgid prick, before suddenly going alarmingly still, just hissing wet breaths into John's mouth. Then, with a faint growl that escalated exponentially into a deafening yell, making John's ears buzz with volume even through his orgasm, the detective climaxed.  
Hard.

The hot, liquid orgasms and aftershocks were something of a dizzying, atom-pounding haze for both of them after that.

In any normal circumstances, John would have taken a moment of pride with any lover that he'd brought them to orgasm - accidentally or not - but his body was so spent that the most he could manage was to shift onto his back and breathe in heavy gasps.

Sherlock was still shivering violently, making strange, choking noises and pained yowls as his body finally started to ease down from its devastating climax. He curled tightly up against his doctor, smearing his arm and chest with damp black curls, his heart beating frantically and hammering with exertion.

John could feel the burning, heavy breath through the thin material of his shirt, but he couldn't bring himself to look. Sherlock post-orgasm had been deliriously happy, but that had been a while afterwards.

John found the force of his curiosity suffocating at what Sherlock looked like directly after an orgasm. It took him a few more breaths before he could look down, only to see the man curled around him like some kind of long-limbed kitten, and he smiled despite himself.

The detective was trembling and clammy-skinned like he was coming down off a particularly powerful hit, and in a way, John supposed he was.

"...John," Sherlock managed to croak, barely twitching a few heat-wrinkled fingertips across John's shirt, leaving faint wet marks.

With his heart still pulsing in his throat, John had to swallow a few times before he found his voice.

"Yes?"

Everything was slowly coming back into focus, and the doctor was well aware of his current predicament. Another shared wank. Or, well. Mutual gratification. This time it wasn't just Sherlock's voice that got him off. John ran his tongue over his dry lips, unable to look down again.

"Are you alright?" John asked gently, scared that any loud noise would send him into a panic.

"Ohhh, John...I think I've ruptured my urethra," Sherlock giggled wheezily.

John reached a hand up to cover his eyes, unable to stop himself from mimicking Sherlock's dizzying giggles.

"Have you actually, or are you just bring dramatic?" he laughed, shaking his head before looking down at the man.

His breath caught in his throat, because Sherlock had upturned his head and was still lying on his chest. His face was serene, free from everything that hounded him in that massive brain, smoothing out everything and leaving the man looking so much younger.

"If I have, it's your fault, and it's up to you to kiss it better, _doctor_." Sherlock took a very deep breath, and let out the longest, most languid sigh, before wrinkling his nose a little. Without opening his eyes, Sherlock hesitantly reached down and touched his own underwear. His peaceful features soon twisted in disgust. "...That's just...unpleasant." He brought the hand back to his face and stared at his wet, sticky fingers dazedly. "Christ."

John realised as Sherlock shifted that he was literally lying on his back with his dick out, no doubt sticky too after having a mind blowing orgasm gifted to him by his best friend. Who had also come in his pants.

John's body tensed slightly, but he was still too lax to move. Instead he just lay there, his breathing finally under control. In the momentary silence, he looked back down at Sherlock. He wanted to catch him when his mind was relatively empty.

"Why did you say I was yours?"

"Hhm? ...You mean to that fake nurse?"

"Well yeah, and you said before. That I was yours."

"...Well," Sherlock said dreamily, stretching a little and groaning when some joints popped. "Living in a fantasy is often so much more satisfying than living in the real world. Why do you think I have a Mind Palace? Why do you think I'm an addict," he huffed softly.

John took the chance to pull the cover over his lower half, grimacing at the sticky feel around his groin.

"But that still doesn't answer my question," he said tiredly, scooching up on the bed before lying back with one arm behind his head.

Sherlock pulled off his sodden, cooling underwear under the covers, out of sight, and sheepishly threw them out of bed, before copying John's position, explaining. "The first time you see my manhood properly, I don't want it to be when it's tired and coated in lukewarm sperm," he chuckled. "...As to your question...was my reply really not clear? I would perhaps enjoy having you as a partner in an ideal world, but that's not going to happen. Not in the true sense."

John risked a glance at the man who'd so comfortably settled at his side, under the covers, like he belonged there. And if Sherlock's words were true, it was where he wanted to belong. John wasn't quite sure what to do with this information. As it stood, he couldn't do much in his dwindling state of attention bedsides leaning over to flick off the lamp.

Even in the darkness, the weight of Sherlock dipping his mattress was unbelievable and yet quite real at the same time. Such a mismatch of sensations. So many unspoken words.

"I would say you're welcome to sleep here, but it looks like you're going to anyway."

"John, if my frankness and my presence here disturbs you, I will leave. But if you truly are uncomfortable, I would request that perhaps we don't do this...mutual gratification thing again."

John opened his mouth, blinking a few times in the darkness. His torso felt cold without the detective clutching to him, and what a strange thing to notice in the light of what they'd done.

"I'm... Fine. It's all - fine."

"Don't use that word if you don't mean it. It's not a magic word. I can hear the little dodgems of angst bouncing around in your head."

John let out a huff of laughter.

"This is the strangest thing I've ever done. I don't understand any of it, I'm still angry from before, but I'm not forgetting the brilliant orgasm I just had so until I can make sense of it I'm just going to enjoy being warm and comfortable. You're welcome to it, too." John shifted further into the blankets, subconsciously easing closer to Sherlock where the warmth centered most. "That's up to you."

"Very well. We'll snuggle a bit and remember the orgasm," Sherlock grinned, sounding like a small wet click of lips in the dark. "Are you planning to hunt down the man I'm sleeping with?"

John let out a slow breath, bringing the quilt over his shoulders as bundled himself up against the post-orgasm chill.

"If he hits you again I might."

"Would it make you happy it if I ceased to pay him to make love to me?"

John bit the inside of his lip, his eyes trying to distinguish expression in the shadows around Sherlock's face.

"It's not about what makes me happy, Sherlock. It's about what makes _you_ happy."

"Whilst I'm happy that we are sharing a bed together, I am not happy that it's under these particular circumstances. Oh, and...I implied that you would be seeing my penis at some point. That may have been presumptuous, sorry."

John smiled faintly, letting out a long breath as his eyes started to droop.

"To be fair, you've seen mine so it stands to reason that I'll..." John's words were cut off but a long yawn, his head burrowing deeper and coming out slightly muffled.

"Just go to sleep, Sherlock. Talk about it in the morning."

"Promise?"

John managed a hum in reply, already invested in the wash of sleep taking over him.

XXXXXXXXX


	11. Chapter 11

The next evening, the flat was buzzing with that muted excitement that seemed to resonate before a party. John had plugged in his iPod speaker, and was quietly thrilling at the idea of a night out. Well...it was just a bar, but Lestrade had hinted to him that they had pole dancers on certain nights, and that he absolutely, under no circumstances must inform Sherlock of this, because some of the other guys in the team had gotten it into their heads that they were finally going to 'pop Sherlock's cherry.' John didn't take him seriously, but was more than happy to hear the former part of the announcement.

He'd just taken a sip of his pre-party beer, the taste lingering on his tongue as he turned to the mirror. His hands started to fumble with a strand of hair still sticking up when he heard a slightly scuffing in the flat, reminding him that the other was _still_ getting dressed.

"Sherlock, are you ready yet?" he called, raising his voice against the cheery guitar riff emanating from his speakers.

"You're plotting something John. I can sense it. I don't know what it is, but I don't like it." Sherlock's voice preceded him as he sulkily dragged himself into the living room, a definite pout crumpling his chin. John did a double-take when he saw a crisp, white shirt with embroidered cuffs, and light blue jeans.

"Sherlock you're... You're wearing _jeans_."

He couldn't say the casual look didn't suit the man. Just like everything, Sherlock looked as though he belonged effortlessly in anything wrapped around him, but it was still hard to swallow, even if it did make him seem a little more... normal.

"Of course. What kind of _freak_ would wear a suit to a party," Sherlock mumbled, apparently determined to be a grump, regardless of how dashing he looked. His rust-coloured bruise and the dark nick on his lip gave him a rakish air that John couldn't help but think suited him.

"Don't be so snappy," he replied with a small smile, turning back to the mirror to flatten out the wild hair. He sighed though as it refused to sit, instead picking up his beer again and taking another hearty swig.

Sherlock eyed him, and then skulked off to the kitchen to pour a drink. He sauntered back and waggled his tumbler of expensive whiskey condescendingly in front of John's beer.

"If you're going to give yourself liver disease, at least do it in style."

John cocked an eyebrow before setting his beer aside with a soft thump. He took the tumbler from Sherlock's hand and the man slipped away as if he were standing on the edge of his feet. John studied the man as he took a small sip, reminded very quickly of their drinks a few nights before.

"Not having one?"

"Alcohol makes me horny. And I won't have an outlet for a while."

John spluttered against the edge of the glass, pulling it away to wipe his chin. He took a moment to regain his composure, keeping his mouth firmly shut so he didn't mention the multiple mutual gratification stints.

"Oh... okay. So... are you ready?"

Sherlock spoke in a typical non-sequitur, seeming not to hear him. "All our friends will be there, John. People we know...various... _acquaintances_...it'll be hateful."

John felt a small smile tug at his lips, moving to his speakers to change the song.

"That's what a party is, Sherlock. People we know."

Sherlock's head fell back as he groaned dramatically, giving John an obscene view of his long, slender neck...marked with...oh, _shit_.

His own bitemarks.

John had to turn his back to the man so that he could choke out his gasp like a cough.

Dear fucking Lord.

Everyone would assume it was him. The bruise on the face, the cut on the lip - those would be brushed off as some kind of case or put down to Sherlock's love of the dangerous but... Love bites, well, they would ask assume it was John.

The worst thing was that this time, they actually _were_.

 _Why did Sherlock choose today to be casually dressed?_ At least his usual get-up came with a scarf and upturned collar.

After a lazy stretch, Sherlock eyed John's glass, and abruptly spoke. "You know, I've changed my mind. It won't be fun for you if I'm stroppy all night." He poured himself a large tumbler of whiskey, and impressively downed the lot in one go, hissing at the fiery liquor and licking his plump lips afterward, chuckling. "See? Stylish."

"Can't savour the taste if you..." John's words dwindled as he watched a stray droplet run over Sherlock's chin. As he snapped his eyes back up, he could have winced as he met those eyes watching him carefully.

"...drink it so quick."

Sherlock smouldered for a few gut-wrenching seconds, and then broke the spell by hiccuping loudly, and then giggling. He knuckled away the rogue droplet, and proceeded to suck it assiduously from the back of his hand.

Everything about the man was becoming obscene, either that or John was paying far too much attention to him.

"Right, time to go," he said a little too quickly, turning off his music and reaching for his comfortable leather jacket.

"You should wear that more often. Very appealing," Sherlock said airily, pulling on his coat. To John's dismay, he decide to forgo popping the collar up, and just stood, hands in pockets, waiting for his doctor.

"Right," John mumbled, checking his pockets to make sure he had everything. Before he actually asked the man to lift the collar, he turned and together they exited the flat.

Wintry night was just starting to settle over London, casting dull orange light over the pavement. The doctor raised an arm, thankful that the first taxi pulled up, and together they slid inside.

"So are you going to behave tonight?" asked John playfully, giving the man next to him a small smile.

"That depends. There is a small possibility that I will be engaging in carnal activities later. For you, the possibility is much higher."

John turned, his eyes wondering over Sherlock's face to try and decide if he was being playful or sarcastic.

"How so?"

Sherlock's pale face was open, guileless. "You're attractive, funny, witty in a non-offensive way, considerate, pleasant. The opposite of me, really. Perhaps that's why, against the odds, we get on."

"You mean like complementing each other?" John knew he was falling into some kind of trap, considering Sherlock didn't give compliments freely even if they were disguised as facts. He was also being deliberately cryptic, which could also mean there was more to the words. Alternatively, he could be looking too much into things again. That seemed more likely.

"Of course. Yin and yang. Though there are some shared elements. Like a reckless and irresponsible love of life-threatening situations," he grinned, his cheekbones crinkling, tarnishing the rusty bruise that decorated translucent skin.  
John couldn't help a smile back, shaking his head.  
"Knew there must be a reason I'm still here," he teased, feeling his shoulders relax. Sherlock had apparently decided to drop his sulking act, and John was looking forward to what he hoped would be an enjoyable evening.

* * *

"There's another reason you're more likely to pull, John," Sherlock was educating him as they vacated the taxi and stepped toward the classy-looking bar. "There are far more heterosexual people around." The attractive young things passing them on the pavement gave the oblivious detective a few odd looks, and then tittered as they kept walking.

John gave the passing couple a small nod as he stepped closer to Sherlock, intent on making the man talk quieter. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock had pretty much admitted he was gay. It was an obvious conclusion considering Mr Mystery was, well, a _man_. If Sherlock had liked dominant women then he would have done more with Ire-

"Well I'm not actually on the pull if I'm honest, but I'm sure someone will catch your eye."

Sherlock cast a deeply-suspicious eye on his doctor as they slipped into the building, John nodding politely at the doorman whilst Sherlock completely ignored him. "Why aren't you on the pull? You're _always_ on the pull. Even at funerals you're on the pull."

"Jesus, Sherlock, I'm not some sex-deprived maniac," he muttered, moving to the small booth to the side and handing over his coat. The bored-looking woman behind the desk hung it up lazily before pulling a ticket from a small pad. She handed it over to him and John stepped aside, watching the detective as he shrugged off his coat.

"I didn't say you were a maniac," Sherlock retorted reasonably. John stared at the blossoming bite-marks that seemed to refuse to be muted, even in the soft lighting of the bar. Sherlock's skin was so impeccably white that any blemish, no matter how small, couldn't fail to garner attention.

With an internal groan, John started up the glossy black staircase and into the main bar. The lighting was set to blue, but it was bright enough to illuminate the steadily increasing amount of people. The biggest crowd was at the bar, and as John scanned the faces he let out a long breath when he recognised Greg, a pint to his lips before he laughed at the man he was speaking to.

"Play nice," murmured John to Sherlock before he started forward, garnering a wave from the DI as he noticed them.

Lestrade stood to greet them, looking deeply impressed. "John, you did it. Good man. We've already picked a few out, but we thought it was only right that you get the final say. It's a break at the minute, starts again in fifteen." He gestured at the empty stage.

John gave the man a small nod, trying not to shift as the detective positively loomed over him.

"Enough time to get a drink then," he said quickly, turning to the bartender and ordering a pint.

"Want anything Sherlock?"

"A Screaming Orgasm."

John heard Lestrade make some kind of noise before John ordered the drinks, passing the ridiculously flamboyant drink over to Sherlock before picking up his own and taking a sip.

"...I haven't had one of these in ages," Sherlock hummed thoughtfully as he took a mouthful.

John's attention was split between the words coming out of Lestrade's mouth and the way Sherlock's lips dipped over the rim of his glass.

"... Sorry what?"

John turned back to Greg, meeting his puzzled look with a clueless one of his own.

"...Um, John...you didn't actually have to _beat him up_ to get him to come out tonight," Lestrade muttered playfully, whilst the detective wandered off, scrutinising the decor.

"What? Oh, no, that wasn't me." John whipped his head around from Sherlock's figure towards the end wall and tried to focus entirely on the DI.

As he frowned at the inspector's lascivious grin, his phone buzzed loudly, and he reached for it, planning to switch it to silent, knowing it would annoy the fuck out of everyone otherwise.  
He peered down at the bright screen.

 _Do you want to know a secret? SH_

John frowned before his eyes were flickering upwards. He couldn't see Sherlock through the thickening crowd, but with the detective texting him, it seemed Sherlock could see him.

 _Go on, then. - JW_

 _You provided me with the best Screaming Orgasm I ever had. – SH_

John let out a strangled sound, coming as close to a squeak than he ever thought possible. He saw Greg give him a confused glance just as heat was creeping up his neck. He licked his lower lip, putting the phone on the bar.

"Everything all right?" asked Lestrade slowly, looking from the phone to John's face.

"It's...just...you-know-who," John blustered, hoping that this night wasn't going to be an endless mind-fuck of cryptically sexual texts.

Lestrade let his eyes linger on John's face before he brought the pint back to his lips. They stood in an awkward silence for a few minutes, until another buzz from his phone drew both their eyes. John snatched it up mere seconds before Lestrade did.

 _It may interest you to know that my friend is in the vicinity - SH_

John felt his hand tighten on his phone, ignoring whatever Lestrade was saying to him as he quickly tapped out a reply.

 _Who?- JW_

He'd started typing 'who the hell is he, where the fuck is he, and why don't you introduce me' but that seemed far too... insane.

 _Don't be dense, John. The friend who is close to becoming redundant. He's here. I may go and say hello. –S H_

"John, what the hell is going on? You look like you're going to kill someone."

John flashed a look at the inspector before taking a long breath and twisting his features into a smile. "I'm fine. Just... Sherlock being Sherlock."

"He doesn't normally make you crack a glass." John was baffled, before he released his frighteningly-strong grip on his glass, and stepped back, shocked.

"Show's about to start, come on, we've got to find Sherlock. No way am I going to miss this," Lestrade yelled over the increasing music. He suddenly waved, and before long Anderson, Sally, and a few other familiar faces appeared in the rapidly-lowering lights, all looking dolled-up and merry. A thumping, sultry song began to vibrate through the air, and a chaos of cheers went up as near-darkness fell.

John heard a few rowdy laughs around him, noticing that everyone's attention was on the spotlight coming up centre stage. He couldn't see Sherlock in the darkness, and he resigned himself to becoming a shadow at what was no doubt going to be a display and a half.

Lestrade bundled him roughly through the crowd, yelling and laughing raucously, clapping as a remarkably fit young woman with long blonde hair sauntered out to the reverberating beat of the song.

John couldn't help but look her over. Her skin was glistening with body glitter, her body scarcely clad in what resembled a bikini but with a lot more rhinestones. Her curves were plentiful, her eyes smouldering under dark make-up. Everything about her was stunning, sexy to a painful point - and yet, John still had a niggling itch to look for Sherlock. The fuck was happening to him?

Christ, what if Mr. Man had taken him outside to slap him about a bit. Teach him a lesson for coming to a place like this.

John was near to panic when a tipsy Lestrade thumped him hard in the arm, and pointed to the stage, where the woman was striding around the circumference of the platform, pulling elaborately thoughtful poses and expressions, and pretending to scan the crowd.

The doctor took a small step back before he realised that he wasn't close enough to the stage to be illuminated. His eyes turned to Lestrade, the smug grin on his face, and everything came together with a click.

They hadn't just made him bring Sherlock to embarrass him around a few strippers. They'd made John bring him because John was the only one who could, and that was to-  
The crowd suddenly went nuts as the woman stretched out a long arm, wrapping her fingers into a shirt and yanking the owner onto the stage.  
"Oh, Christ."

John's jaw dropped as Sherlock played along, grinning with what only he knew recognised as genuine, deep bashfulness. The detective, a few inches taller than her, even in her elegant high heels, pretended to reach out for her body, and she teasingly slapped him away.

Lestrade made a wolfish whistle and John shot him a look. It was useless in the dark, and as Sherlock looked down at the woman, giving her that _smirk_ , John felt another flush roll up his neck. But this wasn't the soft tingle of embarrassment, this was hot and uncomfortable and was Sherlock grabbing her arse?

 _Sherlock just grabbed her arse._

She appeared to condone the action, actually looking quite flushed and enamoured herself, and playfully led him by the hand to a lonely-looking black seat in the middle of the stage.

John took an involuntary step forward, casting his face a little more into the light subconsciously. His eyes tried to take in everything that was happening around the deafening cries and jeering laughter as Sherlock sat heavily on the chair. The woman actually giggled before she bent low, her arse rising over the ridge of Sherlock's knees.

Sherlock appeared to be quite honestly fascinated, and John had no idea if the detective was mesmerised by her near-naked body, or ascertaining the level of Vitamin D in her diet according to mild skin imperfections.

There was a chorus of 'ooohs' and 'yeeeahs' as the woman stood in front of Sherlock, raising her hands to his shoulders and sinking down onto his lap. John felt his eyes narrow as the man's hands came to her hips, and he stepped back, accidentally knocking into a young lad and sloshing the drink in his hands.

"Sorry," he muttered, his eyes already back onto the stage.

The detective looked a bit bemused, more confused as to what was going on than embarrassed. Lestrade's loud cackle of laughter nearly deafened John, when the woman leaned to whisper in Sherlock's ear, and the grey-green eyes widened sharply.

The detective was intrigued when she rolled her hips a little, grinding down into him, before running her hands through his curls and cheekily messing them up.

John felt his body stiffen, watching her fingers glide effortlessly through the mass of curls. Lestrade whooped, but John felt anger sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach. He had always liked Sherlock's curls, and this woman could do it so easily. As if she was _allowed_. Of course she was - she was a _woman_ who wouldn't be hounded left, right and centre by friends and strangers and she wasn't a _man_ so why couldn't she?

She mimicked shock, placing a long-nailed hand against her mouth, and pointing at the rather obvious bitemark on Sherlock's neck. Lestrade cackled drunkenly.

"Oh, fuck, we thought he was a virgin!"

"Who's been nibbling on the freak?" hissed Sally to Anderson just on his left, and John swallowed thickly. Oh God, if the ground could open up and swallow him whole any time soon, he would appreciate it.

Lestrade looked comically pensive for a second, and then his jaw dropped. He gave John another matey slap, chuckling heartily. "John, you fucking dark horse!"

"Don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Greg," John retorted as casually as he could, glaring as Sally and Anderson turned to look at him with wide eyes.

Even as the crowd got louder, everything seemed still as they scrutinized him. "It wasn't _me_ ," he said desperately, letting out a huff.

He marvelled at the blank, astonished stares he received from all three.

"...It's not _you_?" Anderson asked, as if the notion of anyone other than John sexually servicing the detective was totally beyond comprehension.

John ground his teeth, raising an unimpressed eyebrow as the scrawny wisp of a man. He was starting to understand why Sherlock hated him so much. He was a fucking idiot.

"No, Anderson, it wasn't me."

Everybody slowly turned back to the stage, including John. The floor was basically shuddering with the ludicrous volume and heavy bassline of the music. Grudgingly, feeling distinctly sick, John looked back up at his flatmate, and was startled to see calm, grey-green eyes staring back at him.

It shouldn't have been as shocking as it was, but John was sure lightning had struck him from head to toe. He jolted, but didn't break the contact, instead raising an eyebrow as if to say, ' _Why are you looking at me? Don't you have something more preoccupying grinding on your lap?'_

He was gobsmacked when Sherlock shook his head slightly, as if answering his unspoken question. The detective lifted the woman on his lap a little, and she stood straddling him, leaning down and fondling her breasts in front of him. Sherlock spread his legs a little, and in an underwhelming vacuum of shock, John and the team gasped at the impressive tent in his tight jeans.

Sherlock refused to look away from him, and John bitterly took up the challenge, staring him out. If he could fucking read minds, he had a couple of choice words for the bastard.

There was a slight smirk tugging at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, and John only flushed harder as he fought to rein in his temper. It was almost like a battle of wills. John's eyes widened slightly as the woman on his lap, arching her back to shove her chest in his face, turned her own head, following the detective's line of sight. She didn't seem to miss a beat, instead laughing as she put her cheek to Sherlock's, murmuring something in Sherlock's ear. The detective gave a slight nod before the woman turned her head, rolling her tongue over Sherlock's earlobe.

He closed his eyes in apparent pleasure, and then placed a gentle hand in her hair, tilted her face towards him. He started to speak to her, his expression not betraying the words.

John narrowed his eyes, feeling the confusion spreading through the crowd as the woman laughed and shifted off Sherlock's lap. Was it over? Had Sherlock had enough being on parade? John felt his shoulders tense, craning his neck to see if Sherlock was getting off the chair and ending this obscene show.

He sat quite still, and the crowd started baying and clapping, wanting more. There were giggles and whoops when a muscular, lean man strode onto the stage, and straight for Sherlock, with a knowing, playful grin.

John went rigid again, his jaw hanging open as the crowd took a more definite interest in the show. Lestrade looked dumbstruck, along with Sally - but Anderson was wearing a smug grin as if he'd been right about everything all along. He had to remind himself to breathe as Sherlock's eyes positively _burned_ as the man approached him, big hands sliding over Sherlock's clothed chest, up over his neck, pressing into the small collection of bruises. Sherlock squirmed under the attention, biting his lower lip as the man circled him.

Coming up behind Sherlock, the smooth-skinned man leaned forward, pushing his strong hands down the detective's body, neatly avoiding his eager crotch, and kneading his thighs.

John raised his chin, feeling heat licking in his stomach even if it was laced with burning anger. This was ridiculous, he thought, as Sherlock turned his head to smile at the man. Something about it just... Sherlock rarely smiled like that. It was a lazy, knowing smile, and John could have keeled as he realised why this was so disconcerting.

The detective's eyes were keenly fixed on the other man's. He murmured something, and then placed an eager hand in the dancer's short hair, before trying his luck, angling in for a kiss.

John heard the whole room take a collective breath, his own burning in his lungs, but the male stripper smirked knowingly, reaching out and placing three fingers over Sherlock's lips.

Then the hand moved over Sherlock's cheeks, taking his chin and angling his head in an almost submissive way. The stripper smiled dangerously, turning Sherlock's head to expose the other side of his neck, before dipping down to brush his nose over the detectives pulse points - over the love bites.

John felt near to passing out at the dizzying lack of oxygen he was managing to utilise. The stripper teased the darkened, sore skin, breathing and gently blowing on it, but never touching with his lips.

Sherlock groaned, familiar and loud, just about audible through the pounding music, and John felt like he was a hairs-breadth from homicide.

Lestrade was enjoying himself far too much, and John had never wanted to lash out so much in his life. Would it be weird if he punched a stripper? Or dragged Sherlock away? That would be weird. Questionable. But he was close to it.

Sally and Anderson were laughing in disbelief, stunned that they had not only put the Virgin Freak in this position, but that he was apparently enjoying it. The stripper was now on his lap, grinding rather more obscenely and obviously than the woman had done, grinning down and nodding in appreciation at the straining bulge in Sherlock's light blue jeans.

"This is fucking..." John muttered to himself, gaining an amused glance from Lestrade, which was far too shrewd for John's liking. He was so tense that the muscles in his neck were straining, and for a moment he tried to roll his neck from side to side. As he pushed past another hooting patron, there was another groan from the stage and John looked up before he could stop himself. Sherlock's eyes bored into his own and John shuddered before he could stop himself.

The detective's plump, pink mouth fell open, his eyes flickered as the dancer swivelled teasingly on his lap, bumping his groin and undulating provocatively. Still, he stared at John, fighting and failing to hold back another harsh groan, biting down on his wounded bottom lip. He nodded almost imperceptibly at his doctor, his focus laser-like and brooking no argument.

John stood straight and rigid, nodding back at Sherlock before slinking through the crowd. He stood at the back exit, where people went to smoke if the signs were anything to go by. Resting his hand on the handle, John turned and caught Sherlock's eye again. He gestured sharply to the door, before shoving it open and taking a sharp breath as the cold air hit his burning skin.

John heard a ripple of disappointed yells and encouraging claps, ending thirty seconds later with a rather resigned chorus of cheers and applause, as Sherlock finally left the stage.

John started to pace in the small open area, lined with benches and ashtrays. As the door opened again, John turned on his heel.

"What the hell was that?" he hissed before Sherlock had even closed the door.

"Didn't you notice? I was dragged onto the stage for a lap dance. Rather a cruel jest for Lestrade and his lackeys to play." The detective adjusted his embroidered cuffs and shivered bravely, his eyes icy-pale in the freezing air, illuminated only by a grim orange light that was half-full of dead insects.

John felt his nostrils flare, his breath coming in sharp, cloudy bouts.

"Yeah, I saw that," he snapped. "That wasn't what I meant and you know it."

"What was I supposed to do? You would have done the same. And enjoyed it more, I daresay."

"No I wouldn't!" John had to close his eyes, trying his damned hardest to regain some control. "I wouldn't have fucking moaned and touched and try to kiss! Just because-" John cut himself off, looking at Sherlock with wide eyes. "…It was because that was _him_ , wasn't it? I wondered why you were so _familiar_."

Sherlock stared, raising his eyebrow before laughing humourlessly. "John, I'm not accountable to you. I can act any way I choose, and it's certainly none of your concern whether I partake in congress with a sexual partner or not. You're jealous, simple as that."

John felt himself gape before he threw his hands up in the air.

"Oh, right, so it's fine for _you,_ is it? Huh? You're free to stage-fuck some guy and I can't bring one woman home? 'Do as I say, not as I do' is it?"

"You can bring women home. You _did_ bring her home. I exposed her as a fraud, and she left, and you didn't go after her. And then we were intimate. And that's that."

John's jaw dropped, his eyes wide.

"Are you fucking kidding me? Are you actually serious?" John didn't know if he was more livid or... hurt. "You didn't just expose her as fraud, you know damn well that's not what you were doing. You made it perfectly clear that I was _owned_ , remember that?"

"You're the one who seems fixated on that, not me. I can't _own_ you, you're not property. But I do consider that since you clearly belong with me, it's in my best interest to keep you here."

John let out a bark of humourless laughter.

"You... Just - you - you're fucking unbelievable," he ranted, turning and starting to pace. It was a habit that usually calmed him down. This time, though, his eyes kept moving to Sherlock's neck, and his jeans. "You're just so fucking..."

"...John, will it calm you down if I'm absolutely frank with you? You may not like what you hear. But I suspect you're misinterpreting my words."

John ground his teeth, finally stopping and facing the man. He crossed his arms and raised his chin.

"Go on then. This should be good."

Sherlock sighed, looking disgruntled that he'd been reduced to this. "First of all...do you agree that we belong together?"

John jerked his head back, stunned at the turn of phrase.

"I don't... What does that even mean?" His heart was hammering, because he had an inkling, but hearing it out loud would be an entirely different thing. His mind started to buzz with panic, and his eyes flickered up and down the detective.

"Answer the question. Would you be as lost without me as I would be without you?"

John opened and closed his mouth.

"Well, yeah, you're my best friend and... And we live together and work together. We..."

"We belong together," Sherlock said simply, as if relaying a universal and inarguable truth.

"And that's the reason you became a grinding stand, was it?" John pushed his anger forward, clinging on to it or else he would lose his nerve and pin Sherlock against the wall.

"Why aren't you blaming Lestrade? He's clearly the one disappointed that I didn't get my 'cherry popped.'"

"Well he doesn't know it's already popped and then some," John muttered, feeling particularly petulant at that moment.

"John...it really isn't, if you must know."

John cocked his head.

"What?"

"Well I haven't...actually had sex." Sherlock tried to look reprimandingly mature, but the effect was ruined by the stark petal-pink blush on his brutal cheekbones.

John felt his forehead crease, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"That doesn't even make sense. Are you just deliberately fucking with me right now?"

"...I've only been penetrated with objects, not flesh. So technically...no."

John felt a flush rise up his cheeks, an image of Sherlock kneeling on his bed, legs spread, hair wet and back arched-

"O-oh."

"John...it's taken a long time for me to actually come out and say it, I know. I apologise for the lateness of this request. But I promise, I am not 'fucking with you,' I'm not lying, when I ask… whether you would be my first?"


	12. Chapter 12

John felt like he had partially swallowed his tongue, his brain fizzing and popping as he tried to digest what Sherlock had just asked of him. Or, more accurately, propositioned. Thankfully (or maybe not so) the door burst open to a few cackling figures, and John took the chance to cough his tongue back up again.

Sherlock seemed more irritated than perturbed by the interruption, and stared calmly at Lestrade as the inspector patted John heartily on the back, as if afraid to actually make physical contact with Sherlock himself.

"That was _fucking_ amazing. You know that bloke's looking for you now, Sherlock? You've pulled! You sly bugger."

John felt his spine go rigid and took a deliberate step away from Lestrade, trying to detach himself from the conversation and from the jealousy that accompanied being around the oblivious group.

Sherlock gave the open door a withering look, and then startled when the dancer, wrapped temporarily in his coat, poked his head round and nodded at the detective, who simply gaped at him.

"Ah shit, shall we tell him he's treading on John's toes," Sally asked, chuckling warmly.

John narrowed his eyes from where he stood, just behind Lestrade and Donovan, stepping up just behind Sally. "No one is stepping on my toes," he hissed, making the woman jump.

"I...I'm actually in a relationship," Sherlock told them all politely.

There was a disbelieving pause interspersed with giggles, before Anderson piped up, "Yeah, the hickeys, remember? We really misjudged that one."

Sally gave him a long look before turning to the stripper who was addressing Sherlock, making John's face burn.

"...Well...if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me. And, you know...if you decide you don't want to deal with your little problem on your own," the dancer laughed, grinning charmingly as he blushed and nodded towards Sherlock's lower half.

"Well!" John announced loudly, with a bite to the word that he wouldn't even begin to deny. "This has been _very_ pleasant but I for one have had enough of this obscene display." John knew he was causing a scene, but using politeness laced with poison was probably better than punching the stripper - which he was very close to doing.

Everybody gave John a look of surprise at his defensive display. Once the disappointed stripper had gone back inside, Lestrade asked carefully. "You sure it's not you, John? It's fine if you are. I mean...we all sort of...well, we wouldn't be surprised."

"It's not me!" John snapped, his neck prickling at the scrutiny he'd just put himself under.

"Alright, it's cool," Lestrade placated him. "...Right...dunno bout you lot, but I'm bloody freezing. Another round? I'm buying," the inspector offered hopefully.

"I'm gonna go," John mumbled, feeling deflated and ridiculous as everyone started to awkwardly hustle back into the bar.

He was through the club and on his way out the front door when he glanced back at the group, but instead found himself face-to-face with Sherlock's shirt-clad sternum, and he nearly shrieked in shock. _Fucking ninja._

"You made everyone very uncomfortable, John," said the detective smoothly, as if he were pointing out the most mundane of things.

Regaining his composure, John held the door open for him more out of habit than a desire to be polite, and sulked on the pavement as he fumbled on his phone for the taxi number. "How do you do that," he murmured irritably. "And you really think _I_ was the one making everyone uncomfortable? After that bedazzled prick practically offered to suck you off?"

Sherlock simply watched him, studying him like he was nothing more than a bug under a magnifying glass.

"It was the attention given to me by the man that entertained them the most. Clearly I met their objective and exceeded it. You, on the other hand, caused them embarrassment. It was highly... bizarre."

"This whole _fucking_ situation is bizarre! And you know what, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of you doing your robot act whilst somehow being in a relationship at the same time. One of those things is a lie, and I don't actually give a shit which it is anymore. I just wanna go home and not have to think about any of this for one fucking night," John spat, gesticulating furiously, before finally ending his rant and taking deep breaths.

Sherlock raised an elegant eyebrow, his eyes narrowing.  
"John, jealousy is not becoming of you. If you were truly sick of our situation then you wouldn't have begged me to wank you off last night."

John's indigo eyes widened briefly, and then hardened. Scouting the freezing street quickly, and deciding he didn't give a crap about the handful of tipsy pedestrians nearby, he seized Sherlock's pristine, delicately-embroidered collar, and backed him up savagely against the wall of the bar. "You really are asking for trouble, Sherlock. This is your first and last warning."

Sherlock let out an undignified grunt as he shifted under the surprising strength of his doctor.

"Please, John. As if you would sully your considerably 'straight' reputation in a street full of people."

"You're right. I wouldn't." John grimaced with anger as he hauled the taller man easily away from the wall, and into the narrow street beside the bar, lined with skips, and icy puddles, and shadows.

Sherlock barely caught his footing before John threw his weight back on the man.

"Are you jealous?" purred the detective, a hint of amusement in his tone. "Jealous that someone other than you gave me an erection? That they touched the marks _you_ made?"

There was nothing but idle curiosity in Sherlock's tone, as if he were completely trying to shatter his self-control.

John ran his hands roughly up Sherlock's waist, before dragging and shoving him against the bone-numbing cold wall, on the other side of a darkened skip, only thirty feet from the street, where the occasional pair or group of thrill-seekers strode past noisily.

"I'm not jealous, Sherlock. I'm fucking _incandescent_." Without further ado, he proceeded to aggressively tilt up the other man's chin, and stretch up to bite down very hard on the purplish bitemark he had birthed there the night before.

Sherlock jerked underneath him, his head flinching away from the pain but his hands pulling John's hips closer. There was a deep groan the vibrated through the detective's chest, and as John's teeth aggravated the skin, Sherlock rocked his hips.

"Yes, John, _fuck_."

John began to suckle thirstily on his kiss-bruised neck, his left hand hastening downwards to cup and squeeze Sherlock's impressive, denim-clad bulge.

Sherlock groaned and keened, rolling his hips against John's hand, begging for more.

"Show me, show me how jealous you are," came the soft baritone. So needy. So fucking filthy.

John gave him one final lick, right across the centre of the now-considerable bruise, and pulled back, breathless. "Only if you tell me how much you want this."

He pushed his palm against Sherlock's cock, grinding in firm circles.

Sherlock made a noise that could only be described as a growl, the fingers on John's hips tightening to bruising pressure.

"More than anything. I want to feel your hands over every inch of me. I want your fingers inside me, I want your cock pounding me until I can't form coherent sentences. Fuck me, John. I _need_ it."

John stared up at him, swallowing down his surprise. "...Yeah, that'll do fine." He grabbed Sherlock's pale face, thumbing across his cheekbones, before crushing their mouths together and beginning to plunder hungrily.

Sherlock, so tall and confident, so arrogant and selfish - a man so infuriatingly incredible, was absolute putty in his hands. The detective whimpered against him, parting his lips to give John access to anything that he wanted. His hips were rocking sporadically against John's, seeking a harder friction as his tongue lapped desperately at John's.

John laughed breathlessly as he tried to pull back to talk, but Sherlock's large hands kept yanking him greedily back. Finally he managed, uttering words against the detective's wonderfully-plump, cool lips.

"Turn around, gorgeous."

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, almost surprised, before he was pirouetting in John's arms, his own slim limbs stretched out against the wall. Soft curls brushed against John's cheeks before the detective brushed his arse against the bulge in John's trousers, grinding up and down, his breathing heavy.

"God, look at you. You're amazing," John murmured, a familiar compliment made astounding to Sherlock by the fact of hitched breath, worshipful hands on his hips, and an excited cock shoving mindlessly against his backside.

"...I...haven't got anything...can't fuck you," the doctor whispered, kissing pressing random, delirious kisses across the back of Sherlock's shirt.

"Then use... your fingers... won't take... much," Sherlock mumbled, still steadily caressing John's crotch with his deliciously plush arse. "Come on, John," he all but hissed. "I didn't take you for a patient man with an erection like that."

"No...you're gonna come without them. I'm gonna pull you off, and tell you everything I'm going to put inside you when we're home. Fingers, cock...tongue."  
John reached around and quickly unzipped the detective, pushing inside his underwear and grasping his blood-hot, wet prick, squeezing it comfortingly.

Sherlock let out a deep yelp, bracing his arms against the wall and pushing back until his whole body was flush against John's.

"Ah, _yes_ , John - fucking _yes_!"

Sherlock shoved his arse harder against John's clothed groin, thrusting forward into his hand and back again. "Christ," he whimpered, turning his head to try and bite desperately at John's cheek.

"Shh, you'll get us into trouble," John wheezed, steadily rutting against the plush backside that was bouncing into him. "You feel...incredible. You'll feel even more incredible...when I'm inside you," he panted, twisting on the upstroke of Sherlock's cock, silently marvelling and thrilling at the copious, thick liquid that he encouraged.

"John! Is that - ah, _fuck_ \- will you? Will you really, shit, oh _God_..."

John's thumb ran over the leaking slit, causing Sherlock's head to roll back onto John's shoulder.

"Faster, God, John!"

"God, you're so wet...I'm gonna fuck you so hard, Sherlock," John growled, surprised to find his own climax just a matter of thrusts away. "Sh-Sherl, I'm gonna come," he whispered urgently.

"Yes, yes, yes," Sherlock panted, almost mindless, thrusting into John's palm. "Over me, come over me John - I want to feel it, oh I'm so close!" He bucked his hips frantically, hands clenching to fists against the wall.

With a final few shuddery thrusts and short, high-pitched grunts, John quickly unzipped and tore down the waistband of his own, and Sherlock's jeans and underwear, as best he could. He sobbed gratefully as he spurted hard onto the detective's bare backside, his seed a slick sheen on white, goose-bumped flesh.

It seemed to undo the man against him, Sherlock crying out without any thought to place or time as he came. It coated the wall and John's fingers, his hips still jerking as he rode out his orgasm.

"Oh... Oh John..."

Sherlock slumped forward, his cheek against the rough wall as they both fought to regain rhythm of their breathing.

It was a good thirty seconds before sticky, wheezy gulps of air became regulated breathing, and both men were shivering from cold, and the residual aftershocks of ecstasy. John stepped back, pausing a second and wishing he could take a photo of the sight of Sherlock's perfect arse, slippery with his own come. Instead, he pulled a tissue from his pocket and cleaned them both up, before zipping himself up, and re-dressing the exhausted-looking detective.

Sherlock didn't speak as John cleaned him up, turning him around and tucking him back onto his trousers. The detective simply slumped against the wall, his curls sticking to his forehead.

As John stepped back, Sherlock's arms were suddenly around his shoulders and he was yanked unceremoniously against the taller man's hard chest. John barely let out a surprised yelp before lips were on his own, lapping lazily against him and prying them open with little resistance.

Sherlock traced his tongue slowly, languidly, as if he were exploring and savouring every moment. "You're going to fuck me," he whispered lazily, stating the fact with a marvelled twist to his tone. "Tonight."

"-I...I did say that, didn't I," John groaned, laughing with embarrassment and allowing himself to rest his head against Sherlock's chest, indulging in the simple pleasure of his body-heat and gently-thudding heart. The winter chill was _definitely_ sinking in now.

"You did," Sherlock purred, the arms engulfing the doctor completely. "I am holding you to it. You're a man of your word John; and I am not patient."

"Sherlock, how can you possibly be thinking of having orgasms again already. I'm wiped out," John laughed.

"Because you said yes, and if I don't convince you to do it now in your post-orgasm state then your rationality will come back and you'll withdraw from me again."

John opened his mouth, but instead chewed on his lip as he chose his words. "...I do want to..."

"Then do it," replied the detective, pulling John back to search his face with so much intensity the doctor felt dizzy. "Stop thinking, and fuck me."

John grinned clownishly.

"…...Sherlock, get your coat. You've pulled."

XXXXXXXXXXX


	13. Chapter 13

John tried not to squirm in the back of the cab, but it was difficult not to with Sherlock pressed tightly against his side and one possessive hand on the curve of his thigh. The detective hadn't let him go since they broke apart in the alley, as if he was going to physically hold him to his promise. Not that John would have backed out, but... well, it was happening so fast, wasn't it?

Such a leap from a few days ago, when Sherlock's moans had nearly made him come in his pants. But wasn't it an incredible turn? The orgasm he'd had moments ago had barely begun to scratch the itch, and the thought of being buried as deep as possible inside his best friend sent a shiver down his spine. The hand on his thigh tightened, as if Sherlock was reading his mind.

"I know you can see everything that's going on in my head right now," John said, barely audible, his eyes straight ahead and betraying nothing, "You can feel it in the twitch of my leg, no doubt. Soon, you're going to feel how much I want you from the _inside_."

Sherlock's body didn't move, but John heard the sharp inhale and one glance told him just how hard it was for the detective to keep his features blank. It was heady, having Sherlock on the cusp of his self-control with just the promise of his cock. He didn't think there would have ever been anything to topple the man, but John was managing it so easily that he had to wonder why he hadn't done it before.

"How much do you want my fingers..." he whispered, leaning over till they were shoulder to shoulder. "My tongue..."

Sherlock's nostril flared, and the hand tightened again as his pupils dilated until his eyes were almost black.

"I'm going to lick you out till you're hoarse from screaming," John muttered, placing his own hand over Sherlock's and holding it. The detective suddenly shot forward and hammered on the glass separating them from the driver.

"Hurry it up, for God's sake!"

John couldn't stop a wild grin as Sherlock sat back with a huff, but it didn't seem to be enough for the man. He flung himself at John, hands wrapped around his face and yanking John so hard against his lips that the doctor hissed at the ferocity of it.

"Oi, behave," John laughed, pushing him away affectionately, but taking his hand once more, squeezing gently. "You'll get all that and more. _When_ we're home."

Sherlock bared his teeth but sat back, crossing his arms like a petulant child. After a few restless moments, Sherlock's hand went back to John's thigh.

* * *

John couldn't help but delight at the feel of the detective standing behind him, arms around his waist, chin resting on his head, and swamped by his coat, as he tried to open the front door. Their pose was ostensibly fond, and chaste, but what was less obvious was that Sherlock's cold hands were rummaging inside the front of the doctor's jeans.

"Sherlock," he warned, a little breathlessly as the key missed the lock for the second time. He shivered at the chill to Sherlock's finger as they pressed past the lip of his boxers, diving down greedily and causing John to buck. He huffed out a breath, narrowing his vision to the lock and ramming the key home. He twisted desperately, the two of them falling through the door.

It was almost pitch black inside, and Sherlock took advantage of the darkness to playfully goose his doctor, humming apologetically through his giggles, as if it had been accidental.

John chuckled in the back of his throat, reaching out blindly for the stairs and instead brushing over the soft material of Sherlock's shirt.

"Hmm... that needs to go soon," he muttered under his breath.

"Orders received and understood, Captain," Sherlock crooned, chuckling in his deep baritone, before hurtling up the stairs two at a time, flinging open the door to their flat, and then halting completely, giving John a thoughtful look.

John felt an odd knot in his stomach at Sherlock's use of his former authority, but it was drowned out as he followed the man up the stairs. He stepped into the flat, noting it was eerily quiet (and soon to be filled with those moans, if he had any say in it) before meeting Sherlock's look. The doctor cocked his head slightly, reaching up to pull off his coat.

"What?"

"Isn't there some kind of tradition about carrying your partner over the threshold the first time you intend to put your tongue in their arse?"

John spluttered out a laugh, covering his mouth to stop another godawful sound from escaping.

"I'm not sure about the traditions of rimming, but carrying through a door is normally associated with marriage."

"You're just saying that being you're a midget and you won't be able to do it," Sherlock grinned teasingly, standing, arms spread, as a challenge.

John arched an eyebrow, taking a long stride towards the man and only stopping for a moment to mentally asses the man's weight and his lanky body.

"Solider, remember?" And with that, John moved forward. He put his shoulder to Sherlock's stomach, knocking him off balance enough to haul him over it.

It took a second to adjust to the weight, spreading his feet before standing straight with the world's only consulting detective hanging over his shoulder. His body could feel the strain, but it was a good ache as he started down the hall. He put a hand on Sherlock's arse, giving him a small caress before following with a smart tap.

"This is a good way for you," he hummed, stepping through Sherlock's bedroom door. "Arse up."

"...Oh, my God John. This is...incredibly arousing."

"I noticed," John retorted, wincing but laughing at the incomparable pain of having an erection poking you in your wounded shoulder.

The bravado was starting to fail him as he stood by the edge of Sherlock's bed. With a quick squeeze, John hoisted up his shoulder before Sherlock was dumped onto the springy mattress, a small huff the only sound in the room. For a moment, the doctor just... stared. Sherlock, still in his coat, on his back, his hair rumpled and eyes soft, just staring up at him... almost in wonder. It was -

"Do you really want this?" the doctor blurted before he could stop himself.

Sherlock looked perplexed. "What gives you any notion that I _don't_ want this?"

"I don't... I'm just... oh fuck it."

Before he could let any more of his scattered thoughts bring about hysteria, John quickly undressed himself, and moved forward to crawl over Sherlock's body.

It was hard to think with the smell of Sherlock's chemically-laced skin flaring in his nose, but that was good. Not thinking was... good. John lowered his face to Sherlock's neck, grazing his teeth over the blooming bruise there.

"I did ask you to do this, remember?" Sherlock said softly.

"I just don't know why," he breathed, his hands moving down Sherlock's sides. "Why would you want _me_ to? What about Mr Mystery? The stripper? I can't... I can't compare to that. I'm just... me."

"And _that_ is exactly what I want, John. If you hadn't been so adamant about being straight from the very beginning, I would have tried my luck that first night. That's when I fell in love with you, you know."

John felt his body tense, the words sticking to his skin and sending his heart into overdrive. He felt the breath in his throat curling to demand an explanation, but his mind was quick to stop him. That would be a conversation to have in the light of day, not when he was straddling the man, sporting an impressive semi. He couldn't answer him, he just... couldn't think about that now.

"I need you to get naked, Sherlock. Very quickly."

"Agreed," Sherlock smiled, though it seemed a little restrained in the half-light of the bedroom. A streetlamp outside the window provided cold golden illumination, enough for John to see to begin easing his flatmate out of his clothes.

His eyes moved with his hands, drinking in each new flash of pale skin revealed, until Sherlock's white shirt was open and John was left with the lovely expanse of his chest. He'd seen Sherlock's body before - not all of it - but now it had new meaning. Now he didn't just _see_ , he _crav_ ed.

"Jesus," he muttered, leaning down to put his face against Sherlock's stomach. He groaned at the contact, unable to help himself and nipping at the tender flesh. "Could fucking devour you."

"Please feel free," Sherlock laughed, and his stomach bounced softly against John's mouth, and it was wonderful. "Are you really going to...use your tongue?"

John smirked against his stomach, taking a small nip before moving downwards. "You'll have to tell me how much you want me to, first."

"...It would be...a new experience for me," Sherlock admitted. "But I would very much like to try it. With you."

John felt his mouth go dry, not out of nerves (which was surprising since this was Sherlock, and John was... a little rusty with this) but out of anticipation.

"Hands and knees, bottoms off."

Sherlock paused, minutely, but noticeably, before he undid his zip. He turned away before pulling off his jeans and underwear, and tossing them aside.

John let out a long breath, biting his lower lip as he watched Sherlock roll onto his stomach. That pretty white shirt was open, but still on, and there was something obscenely delicious about the detective still wearing clothes while he parted his legs, baring all to the doctor and pumping blood into John's now rock hard cock.

"Fuck _me_. Fucking gorgeous..." John reached out to cup Sherlock's lovely arse, the deep lashes still present on his luminous skin.

"...Bit sore...careful," Sherlock mumbled, face down and voice muffled. He was very tense, and his fingers were tangled tight in the duvet.

John nodded, even though Sherlock wouldn't be able to see. Of course he would be careful, always. The doctor ran the tips of his fingers over the sensitive skin before leaning forward, nosing over the most prominent welt.

"Do you want my tongue, Sherlock?" he whispered, moving his hands to Sherlock's hips. "Over you, inside you?"

The detective nodded quickly, his dark curls bouncing endearingly. John ran one gentle finger down Sherlock's left buttock, onto his thigh, and across into the warm dip where his testicles lay nestled against the bedcovers.

The man was squirming under his touch, bringing John's eyes from his arse, to his face, down to the dark outline of his balls. John was so hard from looking at him alone that he could only shiver at the thought of pressing inside him.

He let his finger brush over Sherlock's balls as he snaked out his tongue, licking a stripe over his left cheek and feeling the rise of the tender wounds under his tongue.

Sherlock made a small, groaning noise, and lifted himself up briefly to adjust his as-yet-unseen cock underneath him. John barely caught a glimpse of the tip, but he could see, and smell, the long strand of pre-come that was connecting him to the bed.

John bit his lower lip, reaching down to palm himself through his jeans.

"Christ, so fucking beautiful."

The doctor put his hands back to Sherlock's arse, kneading gently, his patience wearing a little thin when the prize was so open and ready for him. Easing Sherlock's cheeks apart, the doctor leaned closer and ran the tip of his tongue teasingly over Sherlock's puckered hole. The muscles clenched at the touch, and John let out a long breath.

"Aargh!" Sherlock yelled, his deep voice reverberating off the thin walls as he squirmed violently on the bed and keened, nearly wriggling out of John's grasp.

"Sherlock," John cooed, running his hands over the detective's hips. "Relax, it's okay. Just," John fluttered kisses over Sherlock's arse cheek and moved his hands down the man's thighs. "It's okay."

"Oh...god John...you're not allowed to move from there. Ever," Sherlock sighed dreamily, groaning out long, dizzy noises of bliss as he continued to writhe.

John grinned in the darkness, moving back down and easing Sherlock's cheeks apart again.

"Don't plan to," he muttered before he moved forward again. This time he used the flat of his tongue to run over the hole, giving a hard curl to the tip before rolling his tongue back down.

Sherlock bucked hard again, with a fierce grunt of pleasure, nearly giving the doctor a broken nose. John laughed, admittedly smug, and proceeded to press down firmly on Sherlock's hips to keep him in place. "Now, Sherlock, since you can't keep still...I want you to hold yourself open for me."

The detective made some kind of long, whimpering sigh, before he tried to regain some control over his limbs. Turning his head and letting his face sinking into the sheets, reaching around and pulling at his arse. John let out a long rush of air, wishing he could take a photo of this moment. Sherlock, baring all and sundry, just for him. He realised he wouldn't need to take a picture, because it was seared into his mind.

Perfection.

"Oh, God, Sherlock. Look at you... so good for me."

John felt a rush of desire flood through him quicker than adrenaline, before he moved forward again and letting his tongue run freely over Sherlock's tight hole. He stopped, dipping the tip inside, before running another swift lick around the edge.

Sherlock let out a bubbly, overwhelmed groan into the sheets, fingertips creeping in to pull himself open even more. He mumbled something, a request, which John couldn't quite catch.

The doctor hummed, palms on the top of Sherlock's thighs, feeling the muscles quivering under the assault of tongue and hands. He rolled his tongue over the hole again, pressing harder before slipping the tip back into the tantalising dip.

"K...kiss it," came the almost inaudible, muffled plea, barely more than a deep-toned exhale into the sheets. Sherlock was trembling hard, clearly fighting to restrain his movement, and his expansive vocal responses. It sounded as if he was holding his breath.

John pulled his tongue back, his fingers making soothing circles against Sherlock's skin before he reached up and guided Sherlock's hands, opening the man up more. Because he could, the doctor grazed his lips over Sherlock's knuckles before moving back to that lovely spot.

He pushed himself further, this time keeping his tongue at bay and letting his lips move around his opening, just small brushes at first. Then he closed his lips around the hole, ending each sweet kiss with a small flicker of his tongue.

"Jo...Oh...y...good," Sherlock whispered, without volume, but extraordinarily impassioned. "This...I...God," came the constant, gentle ramblings, and the detective started to shake his head back and forth repeatedly, as if rejecting the pleasure that he could barely control.

Sherlock's erratic movements gave John the overwhelming urge to make the man come apart at the seams. He wanted Sherlock like this, always, a wreck from nothing but his mouth.

He pressed harder with his open-mouthed kisses, shifting between lips and tongue, suckling and lapping like his very fucking life depended on it.

"Ah...I...agh...John..." Words were clearly a struggle for the detective, restricting his movement to long, undulating, shuddering grinds of his hips against the bed. John shifted forward a little and was thrilled to see a considerable damp, translucent patch on the bedspread beneath Sherlock's penis.

"Do you want to come like this?" he all but whispered, his voice hoarse from the desire ricocheting from head to toe and burning in his throat. "With just my tongue?"

"All of it...ugh, John...yes, just...oh..." John grinned to himself, it was obvious he wouldn't be able to tease a straight answer from the burbling, writhing detective.

John moved forward again, his hands over the detective's as he started a new rhythm with his mouth. He pushed his tongue a little deeper, his lips continuously moving around the rim. John had to add a little force to Sherlock's hips to keep him from writhing away from his mouth.

He felt Sherlock's fingertips, wet and wrinkled with sweat and his own saliva, slip a few times on his supple skin. "John...John! It's...I'm...fuck... _fuck_... _fuck_!"

John discovered that he enjoyed Sherlock's almost-speechless orgasms just as much as his screaming ones. The detective's head lifted up, his back arched strongly, and with a long, seething gasp, and a few sharp hiccups of high-pitched noise, Sherlock ejaculated copiously, rocking sensuously into the bed.

John would have continued lapping tenderly until Sherlock's final shiver, but the detective slumped forward with his legs splayed and John let him go. He wiped the saliva from his chin before moving down and planting a small kiss to the dip of Sherlock's back, giving the man a chance to catch his breath. From the way the man was panting, though, John realised it might take a good few minutes.

* * *

It was indeed about three minutes later that Sherlock seemed to abruptly wake up, as if he had fallen asleep. He sniffed, and groaned, and wiped drool from his mouth with a grimace.

"...Jesus Christ, John."

The doctor snapped his eyes up from where he'd been studying the fine dips and curves of Sherlock's back, unable to stop a grin at the detective's breathy voice.

"Looked like you enjoyed that," he said, his grin turning wicked.

"You've definitely done that before," Sherlock said, without accusation, sitting up and panting,.

John couldn't stop a small smirk, biting on his lower lip and shrugging. "Well, yeah."

"...'That' kind?" Sherlock asked curiously, looking down at the tendrils of semen attaching him to the bed and wondering where to start with it. "...This is like that alien film you made me watch."

John lowered his eyes, cocking his head slightly as he studied the generous pool of goo.

"Yeah..."

Maybe it was out of some kind of curiosity, or the fact that none of this seemed real anyway, John reached forward and brushed his finger over Sherlock's abdomen, running a swipe through the smudge of semen on his skin. Then the doctor brought his finger to his lips and sucked thoughtfully, wrinkling his nose a little at the sharp taste.

"Been a while since I've tasted that," he hummed thoughtfully.

The responding look Sherlock gave him - dazed, awed, bedraggled and aroused, was one John would be happy to retain as long as he possibly could.


	14. Chapter 14

John found himself staring for a good few minutes, his own burgeoning desire still flaring at each new turn of Sherlock's body. The man raised his arms to stretch languidly, all wiry muscles under taut flesh that made John's head spin and his tongue ache to be back where it was. John must have made some kind of noise, or threw an odd expression, because Sherlock suddenly set him with a fuzzy focus, before pulling off his crumpled shirt completely.

"Lie down... I'll help," he said with a lazy grin, and John gave the man a small smile.

"You're exhausted," said the naked doctor, shifting to lie next to the detective. "It's fine."

"No, John...I can't promise I'll equal what you just did...but I'll do my very best," he grinned, his grey-green eyes hazy, his movements languid. "Make sure you're comfortable."

John smiled faintly, a little thrill of excitement at having Sherlock touch him again in any way rushing down to his stomach. He rolled onto his back, his eyes homing in on the detective as he moved sluggishly over the bed.

"I'm going to make love to you with my mouth, like you did for me," Sherlock announced, before he lay curled beside John, propped on his elbows, extending one long hand to gently pinch the dark, firm flesh presented to him.

John hissed through clenched teeth, heat curling up his stomach and spreading through his limbs in a rush.  
"Oh God," he breathed. He hadn't been blown in ages, and to have those smart lips wrapped around him made him shiver from the anticipation alone.

"You like receiving oral sex? ...Have you received it from a man?" Sherlock asked, slowly enough to sound a little drunk. His cat-like eyes blinked, before he directed John's cock into his blood-hot mouth, sucking happily, emitting a long, pleased rumble.

John's mouth opened in a silent moan, his back arching at the sudden deep, wet warmth around his cock.

"Oh _fuck_ Sherlock," he groaned, throwing his head back into the pillow. "Yes, I love it," he bit out, forcing himself to calm and take long gulps of air.

"Mmm," Sherlock agreed, closing his eyes and looking completely blissful, and delighted to be sucking comfortingly upon his flatmate's rigid cock. One hand held John's base, squeezing rhythmically, whilst the other stroked his upper thigh.

John tried to keep himself from squirming, but it was hard to do with hands and tongue seemingly over every inch of him. He groaned from the back of his throat, biting on his lip to stop himself from coming too soon. He was thoroughly wound up from licking out his best friend, from having the man go to mush right before his eyes. It wouldn't take long, not with the man sucking him with such vigour.

"Oh Jesus - oh fuck, you're too good at this."

There was a brief, knowing sparkle in Sherlock's eyes, as they opened briefly, before closing again in peaceful joy. He ponderously adjusted himself, lowering his head a little, swallowing around John as his breathing began to slow, his exhales becoming soft purrs.

John bit the inside of his, craning his neck to watch the man. His breathing was still rapid, his body still high-strung, even as Sherlock's movements slowed to a halt and John frowned.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's cheek was resting at an awkward angle on the loose fist he had made around John's swollen shaft, and he began, to John's disbelief, to snore quietly. With comic slowness, the tip of his cock finally slipped from between Sherlock's cupid's-bow lips with a tiny 'pop.'

John didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or poke him awake. His cock was still aching desperately, but it was briefly ignored as Sherlock's body relaxed completely and he sighed gently.

Groaning in frustration, the doctor shifted himself on the bed before moving Sherlock's dangling limbs until he was in a better position with his head on the pillow. Tonight he'd have to deal with himself, he realised, because an erection this persistent wasn't just going to go away.

With a hopeful twinge of inspiration, John lay beside Sherlock in the half-light, and took himself in his weaker right hand. He turned to face the naked detective, and very gently, slipped two of the fingers of his left hand between the parted, damp lips of his bedmate.

Sherlock's mouth moved against the sudden intrusion, and John felt the small graze of teeth before the soft brush of a wet tongue. The doctor tensed his jaw, going still, his eyes on Sherlock's face but everything about the man was slack. He made a small sound before those lips wrapped around his digits and there was a small suckle. The doctor groaned, stroking his cock as the wet recesses of Sherlock's mouth slicked his fingers.

Thanking God that it had worked, John allowed his head to fall right back, and he un-selfconsciously keened and sighed at the sensation, squeezing his eyes shut and remembering that same suction upon his dick.

It wasn't nearly enough of what he wanted, but it was glorious in its own way. Sherlock's breathing ghosted over his palm and John sucked in a half breath, his other hand moving hard and fast over his cock. God, he needed more. Deciding to completely push his luck, the doctor wriggled his fingers in Sherlock's mouth, groaning as Sherlock subconsciously sucked.

"Shit," he breathed, twisting his wrist at the tip of his leaking erection, feeling his abdomen clenching as his orgasm loomed.

He wished briefly that he could come into Sherlock's mouth, but the mental image alone of Sherlock, sleepy, spotted with come, and breathless, was enough to push him violently over the edge.

He bit his lip so hard that he could taste copper on his tongue, forcing himself to merely grunt as his climax rolled through him in waves, coating his hand and his belly until he was left panting with his head pushed hard against his pillow.

"...Oh...ohhh, fuck," John sighed, laughing breathlessly at the tingling aftershocks. Taking some time to regroup his faculties, he finally made to clean up, grinning to himself.

He slid from the bed and searched around to find a discarded t-shirt, wiping himself clean before moving back to the bed. As he lay down, he pulled the blankets up and over them both, lying on his side to watch Sherlock. How had this happened? He was still asking himself, still oblivious to the change in them. His hand moved over Sherlock's jaw, studying his sharp features.

Just as he felt his body starting to relax in the lull of warmth, there was a hard buzz to his left and he turned with a frown.

John glanced at Sherlock, who hadn't so much as flinched at the vibration from his phone. The detective's pale eyelids flickered for a second, and then he let out a little wet snore.

The light cast over the room by the little phone on the bedside table drew his eyes again, and unable to stop himself, John reached out. It was Sherlock's phone, quite obviously, and half-expecting a message from Lestrade, John tapped the button.

 _-I did think you would be calling me tonight, especially after the party. –TH_

John's eyes widened, and a dread-weight settled in his stomach and started his heart racing, knowing that anything he chose to read from now on was meant to be private. The messages came thick and fast.

 _-You cut quite a figure up there._

 _-You know that everybody wants to fuck you_

 _-And you love it, you fucking slut – TH_

John's eyes widened, his fingers hovering over keys. What would Sherlock reply? John should _not_ even consider replying. It was bad enough he was reading them. Torn, John read the messages again. Another soon appeared.

 _-I could charge you triple and you'd still be gagging to pay. You home alone? - TH_

John's eyes flickered to Sherlock's peaceful face, completely oblivious. Taking a deep breath, John bit the inside of his lip as he tapped out a reply.

 _-Not alone. -SH_

God, that felt wrong, even as he sent the message and a little 'Read' came up underneath it.

 _-I'm alone. Come round. Bring your crop. I'll fuck you with it again. So cute when you howl - TH_

 _-Busy. - SH_

John had so many questions, and putting himself into the mind of Sherlock Holmes was bizarre as it was. Not to mention the knot of anger and blinding jealousy that seared through him.

 _-You broke the skin last time. -SH_

 _-I got carried away. You drive me crazy. Come round. No charge. –TH_

John's breath caught in his throat, and his eyes narrowed at the screen.

 _-I told you I'm busy. -SH_

 _-_ _Been thinking about you. I'd love to be your first. Jealous of your toys. You know I'd treat you right. No pain.- TH_

 _-Pain seems to be a tangible part of our meetings. Seems unlikely you could give anything but. -SH_

 _-_ _You don't know until you try. You asked me Sherlock. You asked me to make marks on you. You said they had to show. -TH_

John frowned, running his tongue over his teeth. He turned, seeing the outline of Sherlock's face. The blooming mark hadn't long cleared up, and he remembered how Sherlock had almost been uncomfortable about it.

 _-Not on my face. -SH_

 _-I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you. Next time. Let me be inside you. -TH_

John took a sharp breath through his nostrils. Sherlock had asked _John_ to be his first. John had just made Sherlock come from nothing but his tongue. He'd been mindless, a writhing mess - brought about by him and _not_ this scumbag.

 _-No. -SH_

 _-_ _But please see me again. You said we could keep going till you got what you wanted. - TH_

 _What did Sherlock want?_ That was the question.

 _-What I wanted may be closer than I first thought. -SH_

John jumped as there was a shift next to him, his heart ramming against his ribs as Sherlock moved. His entire body was rigid, his breath clenched in his lungs. It was only as Sherlock curled around him, nuzzling his cheek into John's shoulder that John let himself relax. It was presumptuous of the doctor, but Sherlock did say something about... love, didn't he?

Sherlock seemed to have made it pretty clear that he wanted John. Loved him? Certainly wanted to give up his virginity to him. It appeared pretty safe to say that this guy had no reason to be in the picture any longer.

 _-Your services will no longer be required. I've found what I wanted. -SH_

 _-_ _That same guy who started all this? I don't believe you. - TH_

Christ, there were more 'guys'? John didn't think he could keep up.

 _-I didn't pay you to believe me, I paid you to do a job. One that no longer requires you. -SH_

 _-_ _This isn't over Sherlock. I don't want to let you go. You're too important now. - TH_

John felt something twist in his gut. That was... an intense reaction.

- _Don't contact me again. -SH_

- _You_ know _what you do to people, Sherlock? You make them fall in love with you. You make it so they can't live without you. You're the cruellest person I know.-TH_

A flash of white hot rage burst behind John's eyes, and his grip on the phone tightened. Who the fuck was this guy to call Sherlock cruel? The detective had his ways, sometimes he was blunt, but he certainly wasn't _cruel_.

Even if, maybe, Mr Man had a point about the... love... thing.

 _-You're being pathetic. -SH_

 _-I know. You're just gonna throw me aside now you've gotten what you want. Hope your new beau doesn't mind damaged goods. Fucking psychopath - TH_

John's reply came without so much as a pause to think.

- _High-functioning sociopath. Do your research. -SH_

There was silence for thirty seconds, and John was about to start deleting the message history, when a final buzz invigorated his palm.

- _I won't go without a fight. - TH_

John couldn't stop a small smirk. It was bad of him to have done this in the first place, but the idea of this guy wanting a fight? Well, John could certainly comply with that.


	15. Chapter 15

By the time Sherlock woke up, dazedly snapping out of a vivid dream, it was late morning. He peered at the window, where the drawn curtains exhibited a fine flurry of ice-white snow.

Smiling, he grunted in pleasure, and let out a hot sigh against John's thigh, where he had been burrowed against the doctor who was sitting up against the headboard.

John looked down to his Sherlock, smiling gently as those sleepy eyes took in the morning.

"Hello," he said gently, wondering how Sherlock would be after what happened between them the night before.

"Jooohn," Sherlock rumbled, his sleep-roughened, deliciously deep voice vibrating through the mattress. "I'm sorry I didn't complete your fellatio."

John snickered and put his phone on the side, turning and burrowing down in the bed. He reached up and brushed a curl from those bright, if slightly fuzzy, eyes.

"You can always make it up to me."

"Did you manage to achieve orgasm anyway?"

John grinned at the phrasing, as if he was incapable of climaxing without Sherlock's pretty lips around him. He wasn't, but to be fair, it was most likely sub-par compared to that unmatched, tight, wet heat...

"Uh, yeah," he said quickly, brushing his thumb over the fingers he'd had between Sherlock's lips. He smirked a little to himself. "Managed to get there alright."

"That's fantastic, John. I think we should have sex today."

He shouldn't have been surprised with Sherlock's bluntness, he really shouldn't. But he still felt the breath catch in his throat.

"Oh?"

"Yes. I spent quite a lot of time thinking about this in my sleep. It resulted in some...unique dreams. I have a question, and you have to answer honestly. Because it would be an insult to us both if you claimed that you could lie to me and get away with it."

John raised an eyebrow. "I won't lie. What's the question?"

"What if I told you that I was interested in penetrating you?"

John took a sharp breath, his eyes going wide as he tried to take in what Sherlock had said.

"Oh... I... I haven't - you would want to? I thought... I thought you liked to be... you know."

"Hypothetically, I want to know what your gut reaction is. Does it repulse you?"

John couldn't say. He didn't know whether the tightening in his stomach was good or bad, but it had been at least ten years since any man had gone near that part of him.

"It doesn't repulse me, Sherlock. It... well, it makes me feel nervous. You know yourself that I've never... well."

"I know. I just wanted to see your thoughts. They're all over your face," Sherlock grinned. "I have never penetrated anyone. So I like being penetrated 'by default.' But, as you know, I am insatiably curious. I wondered whether there would be issues in the future, if I were to request it of you."

John's heart was beating furiously, and the doctor reached out to touch Sherlock's skin, for something akin to an anchor.

"I'm not _against_ it. I suppose... I'm curious too."

"I'm not going to throw you down and ravage you, John. Not unless you ask me to," Sherlock chuckled, stretching languidly, before trailing a long hand over John's bare thigh, nudging the covers back with his knuckles to stare quite shamelessly at his bedmate's lax penis.

"Hmm," the doctor mumbled, biting his lower lip as Sherlock's fingers continued to ghost over his skin. "That doesn't sound like a bad idea," he teased, although it was definitely true. Sherlock just... taking what he wanted. It was a sharp contrast to having the man pining and writhing under him.

The detective slowly petted John's sleepy (but rapidly awakening) cock, and John tried not to wonder what flashes of factoids and careless observations were being made inside that inscrutable head.

John bit his lower lip, eyes focused on Sherlock's face as the man stroked him. He let out a long breath, the end coming out like a hiss.

"Are you going to be insatiable now?" he teased, letting his legs splay open to give Sherlock more access.

"Yes." The reply was simple, and Sherlock's face appeared totally impassive until he flicked his grey-green eyes to John, and grinned the crinkly grin that creased his face into ripples of amusement. "What can I do for you," he asked, as casually as if he was offering to do his tax returns for him. (Not that that would happen, Sherlock claimed that they were above such menialities, and that the whole thing was actually only semi-illegal).

John hummed, shifting himself closer to the man so that his hips were touching that lovely skin.

"You could carry on from last night," he suggested casually, as if he were suggesting a nice place to eat.

"I agree. Would you prefer if I spit or swallow?"

John pretended to look thoughtful, continuing this pleasantly obscene facade (even though his cock was waking up quite well at Sherlock's sweet manipulations).

"That depends if you enjoy the taste or not."

"I have no idea. But I suppose it's time to find out."

Without further ado, he lifted John's semi-stiff flesh into his mouth, and swallowed him whole.

There was no more blasé chatter as soon as Sherlock's lips wrapped around his dick. John gasped, enveloped tip to base, the blood rushing downwards so fiercely that John actually felt dizzy.

"Christ, Sherlock," he stuttered, his hands moving into Sherlock's curls automatically.

The detective was doing admirably for his first deep-throat, until he aspirated some saliva, panicked, and promptly gagged around the flesh, pulling away quickly, and looking completely outraged at his own, unacceptable failure.

John took a deep breath, looking down as Sherlock made a frustrated sound.

"Maybe try it a bit slower?" he asked, a little breathless, now achingly hard.

"Don't patronise me, John!" Sherlock spat, affronted, but John knew better than to take it seriously. If there was anything Sherlock hated, it was not being perfect at everything.

The detective took a slow, patient breath, before giving John's penis what could only be described as a death glare, and going down on him again.

The doctor shifted under the scrutiny, feel far too exposed and more like an experiment with the way Sherlock studied him. Then Sherlock moved onto his elbows and those lips wrapped around his cock again, this time with a much more calculated movement.

John heard the light, measured breaths, and felt Sherlock ease down incrementally, his fingers tightening and teasing his base. The detective hollowed his cheeks and hummed experimentally, and John only barely held himself back from thrusting into the delicious, slick space. The pain of the struggle was only ameliorated by the release of a sharp, grating sigh.

Sherlock eased up a little before taking a long breath, moving back down again. It was so agonisingly slow that John felt every single inch pressing into Sherlock's throat again.

"Oh _Christ_ , Sherlock... _Jesus_."

With the man's nose brushing against John's abdomen, the doctor's hands tightened in Sherlock's hair and in return, the detective let out a moan that vibrated down every inch of his cock. " _Fuck_!"

Just as he had made up his mind to beg Sherlock for a little less procrastination, a little more action, the man himself sighed contentedly, and began to speed up, swallowing rhythmically as he bobbed up and down, his curls twitching and bouncing with each rapid movement.

John's hands, still buried in Sherlock's gorgeous hair, moved with the man's head, the fingers tightening and flexing the deeper Sherlock's went. The heat in his stomach coiled and knotted, and John brought his knees up to give Sherlock more room.

"Ah - shit, yes, fuck...oh..."

John threw his head back onto the pillows as he saw those cheeks hollowing on the drawback, those plush lips pink and slick as Sherlock's tongue flicked over the tip of his cock.

He missed the glance that slightly watery, grey-green eyes shot him, but he felt Sherlock's free hand lean quite heavily on the top his thigh. The fingers that were teasing his base stealthily withdrew, and John hardly noticed until they were suddenly resting directly against his opening.

John let out a sharp gasp, his body jolting from the shock and his arse tensing at the sudden touch. His breathing was broken, ragged and unsteady as he raised his head to look. Sherlock's eyes were sharp in the dreary light pouring through his window, and they were watching him with an intensity that was alarming. The fingers at his hole hadn't moved, but Sherlock's mouth had, sucking absently at the tip.

He could see that Sherlock was waiting for permission - to do what, he had yet to find out - and John had to take a moment to steady his heart. Licking his lips, drawn to the image of Sherlock's mouth wrapped around him, John had to blink a few times before he gave a sharp nod and eased himself forward a little, raising his hips slightly and putting his head back on the pillow.

The only indication that Sherlock was trying to smile was a papery wrinkling of his eyes, and a wet twitch of the muscles around John's prick. If the doctor had been expecting Sherlock to actually get up and move in order to prepare him, he was wrong. What he received was, in fact, a couple of fingers in the face, tapping impatiently at his lips. In anticipation of John complaining, Sherlock gave him an extra-hard, dizzying suck.

The pleasure that shot through his cock caused the doctor to moan, open-mouthed, and Sherlock took the opportunity to shove two fingers into his mouth. John had to resist the urge to bite down out of instinct, and instead raised an eyebrow.

Their eyes were locked, and despite the distracting way Sherlock bobbed his head idly, John decided to follow the leader as it were. He wrapped his lips around Sherlock's fingers, one hand moving to hold the other's wrist, before he sucked gently, timing his movements with Sherlock's. There was a teasing flick of tongue, and around a moan, John repeated it on the tip of Sherlock's digits.

The resultant high-pitched noise created a rapid vibration around him, and he keened in response. John licked his lips when the long (god, _very_ long) fingers withdrew, and hastily went back between his legs, massaging there before the saliva that slicked them cooled too much to be comfortable.

John's muscles twitched and flexed under Sherlock's probing fingers, and he bit his lower lip.

"S - Sherlock," he gasped, unsure whether he was asking the man to stop or continue. Those eyes flickered up before the man bobbed his head with another dizzying suck that dissolved the doctor into babbling moans.

To John's eventual frustration (and this in itself surprised him), Sherlock didn't pry, didn't push. He merely ran little circles around John's opening, alternating between smooth wet fingers, and a firm, dry thumb.

The extra stimulation was killing him, and he couldn't stop himself from writhing a little under the attention. He wasn't sure if the man was simply teasing or testing John's patience with small sucks to his cock and teasing presses to his arse.

Having ascertained that John was going to behave and not wriggle enough to actually hurt him, Sherlock moved his free hand back to the thick base of John's prick, thumbing the hot vein there and squeezing encouragingly.

John groaned and put his head back against the pillow hard. It was delicious, and so fucking sexy, but it wasn't _enough_. If the man was going to finger-fuck him then he would kindly like him to continue, if not then John would be able to put his focus directly onto the hot, wet attention to his cock.

The outcome was accidentally wonderful. Sherlock carefully deep-throated him again, and the anxious pressure of the man's grip increased blindingly, both around his cock, and against his arse, the tip of his finger pushing roughly inside, marking him with his fingerprint.

John made some kind of guttural cry, the mixture of the two so overwhelming that he was glad Sherlock took the foresight to pull back slightly as his hips bucked. The last thing he wanted was to choke the man.

"Sherlock, yes... oh God.. fuck I'm close," he muttered, his hands flying back to Sherlock's curls.

With a sudden, pleased expression (as best as he could manage with his mouth full of cock), Sherlock began to finally, blessedly, go for it. He pumped and sucked and pushed with a relentless pattern of instinctive invigorations.

John let go on any kind of control, muttering sweet nothings of encouragement as his orgasm started to rise. He pressed his hips down, onto Sherlock's fingers and further into his throat.

"Yes, yes! Oh God... Sherlock...ah!"

John barely had time to register the high-pitched, vicarious noise of ecstasy that Sherlock made, the sound buzzing around him as he yelled in his climax, roughly scooching through the detective's curls and pumping up into his throat, crying out in beautiful pain.

The detective lapped at his cock like he was starved for it, and John could do nothing but writhe through it. Finally, when the suction was bordering on too sensitive, John pulled at Sherlock's curls gently, trying to ease the man off his softening member.

There was an unmistakable growl of annoyance, and Sherlock allowed his head to be pulled back, meeting John's eyes, narrowing his own with insidious delight, and making a show of licking his lips.

There was a lingering tingle in his stomach and down his cock as Sherlock's mouth twisted into a smug smirk. John couldn't really do much to dissuade that, considering his legs were splayed and thighs were shaking. Instead he made a small scoffing noise, followed with a smirk, before moving his hands to Sherlock's arms and tugging him upwards.

"I haven't gone without talking for that long in ages," Sherlock observed, proceeding to give John a big, sloppy kiss, clearly taking his invitation as a hint that he wasn't squeamish about sharing saliva after what they had just done.

John chuckled, leaning down to kiss him again, only giving the slightest wince to indicate he'd gotten a taste of his bitter afters.

"Well I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing," he said with a smirk, his voice only slightly scratchy from his pleasured cries. The doctor let out a small huff as Sherlock pretty much collapsed against his chest.

"Nonsense. You wouldn't know what to do with yourself if I was quiet all the time. You'd have been having your little mental crises with Anderson's narration all of this time instead."

John grimaced at the idea of Anderson - even more so when he still had his cock out and a naked detective sprawled all over him. Thinking of Anderson was the biggest No he'd ever had.

"You couldn't be quiet all the time, Sherlock. You're too in love with your own voice," he teased, nudging the man's head with his nose.

"As are you, John," Sherlock observed calmly, taking a huge inhale, and sighing it out over John's chest, before snuggling into the brief warmth it created there.

John wrapped his arms around the man out of instinct than anything else, still torn between whether Sherlock meant John was in love with his own voice, or whether he was in love with Sherlock's voice. He couldn't stop a small smirk, because the answer was obvious without Sherlock having to point that fact out.

"I've come to a decision, John. It regards us, and this situation."

John went rigid before he forced himself to relax.

"OK. What's... your decision?"

Sherlock rolled his head indulgently, and looked up at his flatmate. "I felt that. There's no need to panic. Unless, of course, you wouldn't like this to continue between us. In that case, you can definitely panic," he chuckled softly.

John licked his lips before letting out a small laugh.

"I didn't say that. So, your decision is to have this continue?"

"I'm going to end it with my friend. There's no need to carry on. If, of course, you're amenable to being my...my, um..." Sherlock pondered the correct term to use.

John chewed the inside of his mouth, willing his heart not to beat so quickly under Sherlock's cheek. It wasn't even the fact that Sherlock was technically asking him out that had set it off, but the fact that he'd already ended it for the detective.

What would Sherlock think when he found out? Because the man would know. Of course he fucking would. Oh, Jesus, did he even delete the messages? John tried not to squirm, looking down as Sherlock turned his head upwards.

"Oh...that's...I did have a contingency plan in case of rejection...um," Sherlock said, actually flushing a rosy red and sitting up, looking for something to cover himself with.

"What? No, no - Sherlock," he said quickly, forcing himself up and reaching out to take Sherlock's arm. "No, that's not... don't be stupid, come here." The idea of Sherlock leaving now, when he was so physically and, well, mentally exposed sent a small panic to flutter in John's gut. "I'm not rejecting you, I just wasn't expecting... well I didn't think you'd... I don't know. Want us to be a thing."

"...Don't call me stupid. You're stupid," Sherlock mumbled grumpily, and then pouted when John laughed at him. "Really, John. I would have thrown you out the second day if I didn't think we were perfect together. I've done it before."

John fought to control his features, but a small smile still lingered.

"I thought you'd just been looking for a flatmate, not a partner?" The idea that Sherlock had been harbouring this want for a while... it was flattering, and surprising. How had he not seen it sooner?

"Well, I was, but regular sex would have been a considerable bonus," Sherlock grinned, still looking a bit vulnerable. "I knew the first night that you were perfect. I was even willing to forgo the sex, because we fitted so well."

John tried not to tense up again. He wasn't quite ready for Sherlock to start bringing up that night again, when he claimed he had fallen in love with him.

Then again, he didn't exactly want him to keep talking about how he was going to dump his friend (again, unbeknownst to him).

The whole conversation was difficult to continue. It was unnerving to have Sherlock being so open about all this, and John had been completely ignorant of it all.

How would things be now if they had started this sooner? Would John still be here? It might have been an easier transition if these romantic inclinations had been pointed out in the beginning. It would have saved John a lot of inner turmoil if Sherlock had just told him to begin with.

"Why didn't you say something? Before?"

"That I was in love with you? You would have punched me," Sherlock laughed. "Well, no you wouldn't. You would have been deeply uncomfortable and embarrassed yet conscious of my feelings. You would have found a way to let me down gently. And I don't enjoy being let down, gently or otherwise."

"How could you know that? I'm currently bollock naked in bed, with you. How could you say I would let you down? I was the one who pretty much asked you if you were gay in the first place."

"To make conversation. You weren't asking because you were interested, you asked because you were worried that my constant presence would stir your previously-troubled and frowned-upon feelings towards males. You wanted to know how much resistance you needed to put up. And you managed pretty well, securing a date with a female in record time."

John frowned, because Sherlock may have had a point but he didn't believe for a second that that was the only reason. He'd thought Sherlock was startlingly attractive, and sure, maybe he'd been worried that he might like him a little too much. But then Sherlock had made it obvious he wasn't into anyone, and John had accepted that.

"You made it clear you weren't interested, what else could I have done?"

"You're the kind of man who goes after what he wants. I was waiting for you to do it. I have zero experience in this field, and even if I did, it would have ended in disaster, no doubt."

"I do go for the things I want, but I'm not going to force you into something you said you didn't want."

"I can't be forced, John," Sherlock smiled. He doodled little patterns on John's chest, dabbing his fingertips into his nipples randomly. "Remember that you asked me all of this before all of the...interesting stuff happened. _That's_ when you really caught my attention."

"You mean when I killed someone?"

"...When you put it like that, it makes me sound like I have some kind of homicide kink," Sherlock huffed, yawning.

John couldn't stop a little giggle. "Well..." he said playfully, nibbling his lower lip.

"Let's just agree that for two educated adults, we are impressively thick sometimes, and childishly stubborn, as well as having no idea how to communicate effectively. Agreed?"

John smiled lazily, shifting down the bed so that Sherlock was against his shoulder. He nudged his nose against Sherlock's cheek before ghosting a kiss on the corner of his lips.

"Agreed."

" _Sherlock! Sher...lock Holmes_!"

"The hell..." Sherlock frowned, slowly sitting up. They both jolted in shock when something large and heavy bounced off the window, having been thrown up from the pavement outside.

John frowned before scrambling off the bed, standing beside the wall and leaning over, pulling the curtain aside and sneaking a glance. He barely caught sight of anything before something else was launched against the glass.

" _Sher - shit - Sherlock_!"

The detective stood elegantly and frowned down at the pavement, where his bed-friend was raging, throwing his wallet up at the window.

" _Take it all back! I don't want it_!" the man was yelling, causing a scene on the usually-quiet, icy street, drawing shocked stares and cautious whispering.

John felt acid tingling in his veins, his face burning, as Sherlock finally turned to him with a blank, calculating look.

 _Shit._

XXXXXXXXXXX


	16. Chapter 16

John turned back to the window, taking in the man standing below. It _wasn't_ the stripper from the bar (which had already thrown him for a loop), but it didn't mean the man was any less attractive.

He looked like he was tall, from this angle anyway. Tall and muscular with dark blond hair, and a face that belonged in a magazine. The doctor heard Sherlock move next to him and he cast a glance, realising that now was not the time to be developing an inferiority complex, considering Sherlock was looked at him the way he did a particularly stubborn suspect.

It was unnerving being at this end of that speculation.

"John, I think you should keep out of the way for a minute. Tristan and I need to talk, clearly. And I'd rather do it in comfortable surroundings and a bearable temperature."

The doctor nodded, unable to meet Sherlock's gaze. He turned and looked around the floor, picking up his discarded clothes and shrugging into his boxers.

Sherlock waited for John to get at least partially dressed, and make himself scarce, before pulling on his thickest, tan dressing gown and padding down the stairs. He was deeply confused, and though he had theories, he didn't want to jump to potentially-upsetting conclusions without more data. His face was blank as he opened the front door.

Tristan hovered on the edge of the pavement, his head snapping forward as the door was opened.

"So now you deem me worthy to answer, you son of a bitch?" he hissed, his fringe falling into his cobalt eyes.

"I'd tell you that I don't know what you're talking about, but that should be abundantly clear. I needed to talk to you anyway, so this might be fortuitous. Come in. Tea?"

The blond opened his mouth, but his curses would have only fallen onto deaf ears as Sherlock had already turned to walk back into the flat. Casting a glance around the street, he mumbled under his breath before stepping through the threshold and up into the main flat.

Sherlock was filling the kettle when Tristan strode into the flat, fuming.

The detective turned to look the man up and down briefly. "I told you that cafe was a bad idea. When will people learn to take my advice? Is pride really more important than avoiding food poisoning?" he muttered to himself, adding milk to two mugs.

"The fuck are you talking about?" Tristan spat, stopping by the alcove and boring his eyes into the back of the detective's head. "Is that all you've got to say? Not going to give me an explanation?"

"No. And since you're here, I think I should tell you that it's time to end this arrangement between us."

Tristan's face dropped, his eyes going wide.

"Are you fucking joking right now? You already did, you prick, why the hell do you think I'm here? Were you so high on riding that cripple's dick you forgot? I guess I was a second thought though, huh?"

"I already did? Hm. Interesting," Sherlock said, completely deadpan, eyes bright and sharp. "Then what on earth are you doing here?"

"You - you didn't even consider my offer." Tristan's body deflated a little, his face turning slack as the anger gave way to the niggling of pain from Sherlock's rejection.

"Refresh my memory. And for goodness' sake, drink your tea," Sherlock sighed, plonking the mug down on the table, and floomping down into his armchair.

"I don't want tea," Tristan hissed, storming into the main room and standing in front of Sherlock. He stood tall, crossing his arms and studying the man before him for a moment. "I asked you to let me be your first. Don't say you don't want it, either, I've heard the way you beg for it."

"I _don't_ want it. Not from you. Our arrangement's over, you don't have to come here anymore. You don't have to do _anything_ with me. Why is that so hard to understand?"

"Because!" he snapped, throwing up his hands. "Because you know exactly what you fucking do to people. The way you _moan_ \- it's obscene. You're a drug, Sherlock Holmes. A cruel, soul-sucking drug."

"Because I - oh. I...didn't factor sentiment into the equation. Idiot," Sherlock tutted, looking peeved.

Tristan let out a grunt, crossing his arms and turning his head a little. "Yeah, you are. I'm fucked off you just dropped me like that. You didn't even give me a chance to show you how fucking amazing I could make you feel. How different toys are compared the _real_ thing."

"...You've seen and had quite enough of me already. Far more than enough, it would seem in hindsight," Sherlock pondered aloud. "We had an arrangement. Cash in return for services rendered. You were under no obligation to go further, and I didn't require you to."

"Doesn't mean you didn't _want_ me to," purred the blond, letting his voice dip into that tone laced with steel, the one that demanded Sherlock's attention. The one that whispered commands and left the detective squirming. "Come on," he breathed, stepping closer to the man, looking down at him with a small smirk.

Sherlock flushed a bit, but replied snappily. "Triss, don't be ridiculous. I'm spoken for. I apologise, I should have seen this coming. I assumed you could just switch off when you were with a customer. Maybe you should consider a new line of work."

Tristan spat a curse, his anger flushing his cheeks.

"Oh, please. You wouldn't have come to me if that man could satisfy you the way you needed it. I bet he wouldn't even spank you, frigid fuck. As if he would have the guts to pin you down and give you everything you deserve and more."

"As pointless as it is to argue, you know perfectly well the reasoning behind the physical…aspects of what we did, I explained it in simple terms at the start of our transactions. If you have nothing fresh to add to this conversation, I'll let you leave. And if you refuse, I'll _make_ you."

Tristan bared his teeth, a feral reaction born from his frustration. It took him a moment, but then a small, deliberately twisted smirk playing on his lip.

"Oh, yes, the reason you hired me. Told him, have you?"

Sherlock paused for a split-second. "Nothing about what we did is relevant to anybody else."

The smirk only widened, and Sherlock found himself uncurling from the chair.

"So that's a no, is it?"

"You've said whatever it is you felt you needed to say. Back to the brothel with you," Sherlock sneered, standing up with finality.

Tristan's smirk turned crooked, dark, twisted. He stepped back, away from Sherlock's immediate reach, and cast a glance around the room. He couldn't see that old short guy anywhere, but it didn't mean he wasn't listening. He'd seen him at the window. He was here.

"I would quite like to discuss our _terms_ , Sherlock. The reasons behind our agreement. You didn't quite fully go into enough detail with me."

"What _possible_ reason could you have?!" Sherlock yelled, throwing his hands up in frustration. "What are you doing here, apart from stealing our oxygen?!"

"Calling you on your bullshit!" replied Tristan, his voice just as avid as the other's, if not as loud. The detective's baritone gave his voice more force, but Tristan's held more pain. "You think you can get away with shit like this? Fucking with other people just to get what _you_ want? I think it's about time that everyone knew the truth about you! That's you're a cold, calculating, selfish prick!"

"It's your job! Don't you understand, you idiot? People _pay_ you for sex. That's what you're for. You do what you're told for money. That's arguably your only positive trait!"

"Maybe," growled Tristan. "But they don't just pay me to fuck them - as you so _intimately_ know."

"I don't know what you're going to gain from this," Sherlock muttered, curling his lip, his eyes bright and cold. " _Everybody_ already knows I'm a cold, calculating selfish prick. I seem to remember it's one of the first things I recall my mother ever saying to me."

"Oh boo-hoo, I don't get paid to listen to sob stories," snapped Tristan, a thump from somewhere above them drawing his attention. He turned back to Sherlock, a smile tugging his lips. "Why don't we tell him, hm? Tell him _exactly_ what you paid me to do, huh? No? He wouldn't care how fucking obsessed you are about him? How you couldn't get him, so you had to hire an actor to get his attention. That he wouldn't give you any attention _whatsoever_ until he thought you were being fucked by someone else."

Tristan's voice turned darker, as did his expression. "I'm sure he'd love to know how you couldn't come without thinking it was his hands touching you. 'Oh, John, yes... Oh John - tell me I'm amazing, tell me you love me'." Tristan chuckled, but it was empty. "You're pathetic."

Sherlock stared at him, watery-eyed, for a few seconds, before pulling in a sharp, damp breath. "Are you quite finished?"

"You know what, no. You're gonna get your fucking money's worth. Does he know he's gonna be screwing a virgin? Does he know you're shit-scared of having someone that close to you? That you prefer plastic and rubber? Easier that way, no sodding 'sentiment' getting in the way. Ironic that all that you babble about before you come is love, and you can't even get _that_ far without closing your eyes and thinking of your hetero little soldier. You're a fucking loser."

Sherlock held himself still, his eyes narrowed and expression threatening to crumble. The detective opened his mouth to speak, but found his throat tight, and unable to release the venom bubbling in his chest, Sherlock covered his hesitation with a cough. He took a few slow, deliberate blinks, before turning to the other again.

"I take it you feel better now you've aired me out to my flatmate and my landlady?"

He'd heard Mrs Hudson's door open downstairs while Triss had been having his rant, and as far as he knew, it hadn't closed again. There were no sounds from upstairs either. 221B was holding its breath, and the tension was stifling.

"If I can't get what I want, I don't see why you should either," Tristan shrugged, eyes cold, expression tired.

"Where..." Sherlock cleared his throat again, feeling the heat crawling up his neck from the words revealed, hanging heavily in the flat, before turning his sharp eyes back to the man before him. "Did you come here specifically to humiliate me? If so, I think I've earned at the least an explanation."

"I came here to see if I could change your mind about ending our arrangement. Believe it or not, I care about you. Very much. Obviously that's all been fucked up now, not least because you're clearly mad as fuck about the hobbit."

Sherlock, despite the sting to his eyes, cocked an eyebrow, his features turning to steel.

"I didn't end it. Well, I was certainly planning to, but I hadn't..."

"Well, _somebody_ fucking texted me. I know you're a crackhead, but you must remember that."

Sherlock frowned, looking down at himself. He patted his pockets, ignoring the imbecilic prostitute who was radiating arrogance in front of him to grab at the hard block of plastic sitting in his pocket. He tapped at the buttons, raising his hand as he saw Tristan opening his mouth and silently stopping him. His eyes widened as he searched through his messages.

"This... can't be right."

"Damn straight. Speaking of which, has the good doctor declared his love for you yet? Or did he gently let you down because he prefers wet pussy and you're a fool for thinking otherwise."

Sherlock snapped his eyes up, his knuckles turning white against the grip on his phone.

"That is quite enough," he snapped, his voice dripping with liquid steel. "I've had enough of you."

"So, what do you deduce, Sherl? Ghosts in the computer? Or were you tripped out on coke, dreaming of dear Doc? Don't think I've forgotten those days. Not much has changed, clearly."

Sherlock blinked, his eyes moving from the phone screen and back to Triss. His brain and whirring through different explanations, but they all skimmed the truth. The truth was incomprehensible, and it sent papers scattering through his Mind Palace. The very foundations were threatening to cave, and the mess of his mind set his body to a natural panic.  
"You're lying," he murmured, even though the truth sat firmly in his hand. "It's not..."

Sherlock frowned, breathing hard, his high cheekbones reddened with stress, the rest of his face a worrying greyish pallor. The usually- gentle murmurings echoing in his Mind Palace from distant corridors, became a drunken, ferocious riot in the foyer, and he closed his eyes hard.

 _Hyperventilation. Panic. Shallow breaths. Low oxygen. Racing Heart_.

"VATICAN CAMEOS!"

There was a moment of honest shock as Tristan stared at him, baffled into silence.

There was a moment of pregnant quiet before a thump sounded from above, followed quickly by a rhythmic pounding. Tristan turned his head as a half dressed, semi-flushed man came storming into the living room, his face like thunder and eyes eerily soft.

"Think it's time you left, mate," growled John, stopping just in front of the detective in a protective gesture that neither man could say was intentional.

Tristan actually laughed. "Seriously, I don't believe this. Did you leave your girlfriend in bed? She's gonna be pissed that you left off eating her out just to come and baby your delusional flatmate."

John cocked his head, his blood actually fizzling in his veins as he fought the urge to rip the man's face apart.

"I had actually just finished eating out Sherlock, if you must know. You kindly interrupted as we were getting to the best part." John's voice was low, dangerous, and teetering on the edge of losing control.

Tristan frowned, glancing between the two dressing-gown clad and bed-rumpled men.

"Holy shit, you're serious. Did he flip out on you yet? He's not used to having 'people' inside him..."

"Oh you have no idea what this man can do," purred John, giving the stranger a nasty smirk. "And you _never_ will. So fuck off."

"Well, I wish you the best of luck, little man. Don't think you're getting your money back. I earned that. He's got a fuck-load of issues."

John let out a small laugh, shaking his head. He caught a glimpse of Sherlock, just... standing there. Looking quite broken, and not like the man who had been in his arms just minutes before. He felt a rush of anger, about everything, and it anchored onto the man in front of him. John turned back, giving no warning, no snappish hint. He just raised an arm, and threw a punch aimed right at the other's jaw. He felt the hard bone against his knuckles, heard the fleshy impact, before drawing back enough to watch the other stumble.

"That is for calling Sherlock pathetic, for being a whiny little bitch, and really, because I don't like your face. Fuck. _Off_."

The other man's injured face warped into an ugly grimace, and he poked his tongue around his gums, before picking up the now-cold tea Sherlock had offered him, and spitting a mouthful of bright blood, and half a tooth, into the stagnant drink. "You're...fucking insane. You deserve each other," he slurred, pointing a very shaky finger at them both, before stumbling from the flat.

John kept his eyes sharp until he heard the front door slam. His shoulders then slumped, the cocktail of guilt, anger and betrayal stirring his stomach and setting him on edge. He turned, but couldn't quite meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Was that true?"

Sherlock was staring somewhere off into the middle distance, a small tic twitching in his eyelid, his expression disturbingly-blank. "What, the part about you stealing my phone to dump my lover? Yes, it would seem so."

John felt his cheeks grow hot, and he ground his teeth.

"Just like the fact you hired someone to deliberately make me jealous? Or goad me into wanting you? What - what the fuck, Sherlock, seriously. What the hell is going on with you? You _lied_ to me."

"It's fascinating to know that you needed 'goading' into wanting me. I'll keep it in mind that you're only attracted to physically injured, vulnerable virgins. Wonderful." He turned abruptly, picking up his skull from the mantlepiece and striding quickly through the kitchen, and into his bedroom.

"It was never about the moans," John called, the resounding slam of Sherlock's door setting a silence in the flat that took his breath away. He looked down at his quickly reddening knuckles. "It was just about you," he mumbled, turning to kick the nearest inanimate object.

He obtained no reply. Listening for signs of distress, John heard only the occasional small thump. It was a short matter of minutes before Sherlock emerged once more, face blank, fully-dressed, and an overnight bag slung over his shoulder. He held his skull tucked under his arm, and he had his phone in his mouth.

John didn't need to speak to understand. He didn't need to do anything. With the truth laid out in front of them, neither were able to face it. Not when Sherlock looked so raw and John felt so exposed.

"Are you coming back?" he found himself asking, or more accurately, whispering.

Sherlock spat his phone into his palm long enough to talk. "I'll come back to wherever _you_ are. But right now, I'm in...disarray. I think you understand. My phone's charged. I...still...well. You know."

John opened his mouth, but closed it, their eyes meeting and holding. John swallowed thickly, feeling his emotions plastered over his face.

"Yeah... I know. I know."

Sherlock looked a little torn, and his pale face was primed a self-conscious pink. "Um..." He quickly kissed the tips of his own fingers, and pushed them roughly, but tenderly, against John's mouth.

John was too stunned to do much more than blink, but the detective didn't linger. Instead, Sherlock turned and swept from the flat, leaving John stood there in his boxers and a t-shirt. He blinked slowly, his left hand (now burning from the impact to the whore's face) reaching up, letting his fingers brush tenderly over the lips that still tingled from the remnants of Sherlock's kiss.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock tossed his bag carelessly beside the pristine double-bed, stretched, and sighed. He had a fierce headache, manifesting as a gas explosion in the 'hazardous materials' (emotions) sector of his Mind Palace. His journey had been uneventful, in the back of a stifling taxi. Now, he pushed open the windows of his Kensington apartment and welcomed the freezing, numbing midday air.

He let out a long breath, closing his eyes as he tried to let the freezing wind burn the embarrassment from his cheeks. The halls of his mind were cracked, the windows shattered, the files once so neatly shelved splayed across the cold marble floor. Everything was in disarray, and it would take days to clean it all up. He brought his hands together, rolling his chin over the tips of his fingers as he tried to find some semblance of peace. It didn't help, flutters of memories replaying behind his eyes.

In a rush of frustration, Sherlock turned and allowed his body to flop unceremoniously onto the queen sized bed. With nothing to keep his itching fingers occupied, the detective pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling through the messages that John had sent the night before. _John_...

His doctor really had been quite adamant in his 'rejection' of Tristan.

Whether it had been entirely altruistic, Sherlock didn't know.

Rubbing his eyes, he used his free hand to unpick his jacket and shirt, and kicked off his shoes to bump faintly on the thick carpet.

Sherlock pushed himself up the bed, curling his back as he tucked his legs together. He felt a faint tug to the corner of his lip as he read the last text.

 _High-functioning sociopath_.

He shook his head, irked and endeared at the same time. What a ridiculous, stubborn, nosy, wonderful man John was. It had killed him, at times, to have John so close, and to be unable to touch.

Now that he could forgo that hesitation however, now that he _could_ have John under his hands– the inevitable had happened. Of _course_ he risked losing him. Why should he be allowed his moment of happiness?

He had learned long ago that fragments of joy were often accompanied by the rough edge of pain –accessible, but with the risk of being cut. He tapped his thumbs absently on the screen, bringing up the message folder labelled 'John'. What would he even say?

He breathed out hard through his nose.

 _John_. Good start.

 _How are your knuckles? - SH_

His body was still, his breath hardly easing in and out his lungs in the few minutes he waited for the reply.

 _-Sore._

 _-Worth it though. – JW_

 _Having you come to my rescue is one of my favourite things. - SH_

Sherlock panicked and doubted himself the instant he had sent the message. That may have sounded...oppressively sentimental.

It was a tense thirty seconds until the reply chimed through.

 _Well he was a dick. -JW_

 _Yes. - SH_

Sherlock pondered what to type next. The simplest thing in the world, to construct a series of words from twenty-six letters. But confoundingly difficult, too.

 _Are you still at home? - SH_

 _Yeah. I wasn't sure where else to go. – JW_

 _This is where I am… - SH_

Sherlock quickly snapped a few panoramic photos of the elaborately furnished flat, and sent them.

 _Jesus, where the hell are you? The Ritz? - JW_

 _I didn't break any laws to get in here, if that's what you're asking. I own this. – SH_

 _You_ own _that? When did you get a place like that? – JW_

 _I was about nineteen. You should come over sometime. It's very well-appointed. Hot tub and everything. I hear those are desirable. I personally consider them to be cauldrons of pathogens. - SH_

 _It looks lovely. Why are you at 221 if you've got a place like that? -JW_

 _It's not to my taste. Who needs an inbuilt pineapple corer? I don't. I think the people who designed this place had cerebral syphilis. -SH_

 _-Having things you don't need seem to be necessities in luxurious places._

 _-How long are you going to stay there? – JW_

Sherlock didn't answer the question, not yet.

 _221B is luxurious to me precisely because it has all the necessities I could contemplate. You are one of those things. – SH_

 _Was it true though? What Dickface was saying? –JW_

 _I had to try and find a way to play on your innate jealousy and protective instincts towards me - SH_

 _Why didn't you just talk to me about it? -JW_

 _I think you had to come to terms with it yourself. I had one chance to try and obtain you – SH_

 _Why just the one chance? -JW_

 _If I screwed up, the dynamic of 'us' would have been irrevocably damaged. Then I couldn't hope for you to see me as a potential partner. - SH_

 _I think you've overthought all of this. -JW_

 _There is no such thing. Did you pretend to be me on my phone because you wanted to be with me? Or because you were worried for my safety? - SH_

 _-All of the above. Plus I really didn't like him and knew you deserved better._

 _-How did I do, as you? –JW_

 _Surprisingly well. ; ) You do want to be with me? You don't want a woman, like he said? - SH_

Sherlock despised using emojis, but he felt the inclusion of one might lighten the mood a little. Text levity had gotten him out of trouble (well, in less trouble) with John on more than one occasion.

 _-It's still weird seeing you use smileys._

 _-I think having my tongue in your arse is probably hint enough about what I want. –JW_

There was a telling pause, and John hoped he hadn't been too blunt.

 _But..._ my _arse? Not male arse in general? - SH_

 _Yes, Sherlock. Your fabulous arse. -JW_

 _Should we...talk about it? Sexily? - SH_

 _Like... The way you felt under my tongue? -JW_

 _Yes. And I can masturbate here. And when I'm nearly there you can watch. If you want. - SH_

 _I... Think this is a good plan. –JW_

Sherlock sat up, shucking off his shirt and tapping his phone until he was waiting for John to pick up. He quickly padded to the window and abruptly slammed it shut, halting the progress of the ice-laden air.

The phone trilled in his ear and there was a moment that a sliver of doubt curled around his chest. Perhaps John had changed his mind? Perhaps he was regretting admitting to-

"Hi."

"Oh," Sherlock found himself uttering, as if he was surprised. He shook his head and scolded himself silently, before clearing his throat. "Hi John."

Then, for perhaps the first time in his life, he didn't know what to say.

There was a slight crackle in the line and Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. John, as always, beat him to it.

"I'm sorry, about, well... pretending to be you."

"It's okay. It worked out. Well, sort of. Not for Triss," Sherlock huffed, amused. "And, I'm sorry for paying a prostitute to engage me in sex and mark me in order to make you envious."

John let out a small bark of laughter.

"Yeah, well, don't do it again huh? I was losing my mind for a bit there."

"Did it surprise you? Finding out I had a sex drive? And quite a substantial one, at that?" Sherlock was sure his grin was audible.

"Well yeah. I mean, despite what you say you're still human. So everyone gets urges - I just didn't think yours would be so... adventurous."

"I don't actually like being hit. And I don't have much experience, really. I'm most confident when taking care of myself with toys. I wasn't joking when I told you about how I'd mastered my own pleasure."

John took a breath that seemed a little uneven, before blowing it out in a rush.

"Toys?"

"Yes. Penetrating myself gives by far the most intense experience. You remember?" Sherlock purposely lowered his already gravelly baritone. "...When I fingered myself, beside you in bed."

"God... your voice is bloody obscene, you know that right? Christ."

"Yes, John. I know. And you're going to hear it when I scream your name. Would that please you?"

"Oh... shit. Yes, God yes."

"If I tell you everything I do to myself...would you join in? I can start your tutelage in perfect climaxes."

"I... I would try to keep up."

"Not good enough, John. It's in your best interests to _excel_."

There was a small moan down the line, and Sherlock felt a smirk tug the corner of his lips.

"I will, fuck. OK wait, let me just... take..."

There was a small kind of scuffle on the other end, a distant thump before John's slightly heavy breath came into focus on the line.

"OK. I'm listening."

"Where are you? Tell me. Are you undressed?" Sherlock licked his lips, settling himself on his own bed, rummaging one-handed in the bedside drawer, praying that his emergency lube was still in date, and hoping he sounded more smouldering than he felt as he grabbed a sticky, half-full bottle.

"I'm... on your bed. Now naked."

"My bed? Oh. Yes, that's...that's stirring things here," Sherlock laughed softly, and spoke again, his voice gentle, but rumbling and deep. "I want you to prop the pillows up. Sit against them, comfortably. I'm assuming you have found and procured my lubricant?"

"Oh, uh..." More scuffling, the scraping of what he envisioned was his bedside table.

"Jesus Sherlock, how many toys do you have?" There was another scramble and a frustrating silence as the doctor moved to follow his instructions. Finally there was a sigh.

"Smells like you," muttered John, the words leaving his mouth as if it had been a passing thought that he'd unintentionally vocalised.

"Don't mess up my dildo index," Sherlock chided, before continuing. "I don't want you to peek at them. I'll show them to you in person. Then you'll use them on me, and it'll be like my first times all over again."

"God... I haven't touched them. And I'm comfortable. Are you undressed?"

"I have my trousers on. I'm taking them off now. While I do..." There was a faint rustle of fabric, and John waited. "...The night of the striptease...did you enjoy my jeans?"

John let out a small noise, something like a scoff and a laugh mingled.

"Yeah, you looked so good. Why do you think I lost my shit?"

"I didn't actually plan to go on stage. But I suspect it worked in my favour." There was a faint little grunt, and a long exhale. "I'm naked now."

John let out a long, shaky breath. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to get to a state of considerable arousal, quickly. Whatever that means for you. But don't get so close that you risk climaxing. I'll do the same. And I want to hear everything you do to yourself."

"Okay..."

There was silence for a good twenty seconds before John's breath came out in a rush, and he gave a small groan. "Talk to me."

"Do you ever penetrate yourself? Ever tested yourself? Ever felt ashamed when you realised that even a slight insertion can explode the senses?

"I... a few times. I could never - nggh - never find the right spot."

"Oh, John!" The doctor was surprised by the awed glee in his flatmate's voice. "That's...excellent news."

"Is it? Don't tell me you thought I hadn't experimented?"

"It's good news, because it's another thing I can teach you. You're going to experience a prostate orgasm, and I'll teach you. Oh, it's wonderful," Sherlock babbled excitedly, and John nearly giggled at his enthusiasm.

"Alright, you can teach me. Fuck. Are you touching yourself?"

"I don't need to yet. I'm fully hard thinking about you," He cleared his throat again, and got more comfortable against his lush, plump pillows. He closed his eyes against the cold brightness of the room, and gently cupped himself, letting out a sharp, harsh gasp.

John released a small breath, reacting to Sherlock's voice.

"Tell me what you're doing," the detective demanded.

John let out a small grunt, the line flickering before there was a long moan. "Ah God...mmm... feels good."

"Use lube if you want...push slightly under your balls...till you feel a...spark. That's your prostate. From the outside," Sherlock informed him, and John allowed it with a grin, despite being a doctor and having encyclopaedic knowledge of the prostate's location and function.

"Okay," John said, with a new determination in his tone. He moved his fingers downwards, biting his lower lip before adding a small press of pressure. The answering gasp told the detective John had found what he'd been looking for.

"Yes, yes! Oh god, John," Sherlock cooed deliriously. "Wonderful. Your other hand. Hold the base. Thrust into it, slowly."

"Oh God... _fuck_...Sherlock..."

John did as he was told, balancing the phone between his shoulder as he took himself in hand, keeping the pressure to his perineum and thrusting into his hand.

"Shit! More Sherlock, tell me... to... more."

"Mmm, John, you sound divine. I want your...hips to do the work. Thrust up. As if I was riding you."

The next moan was deep, guttural, as his hips bucked in response to Sherlock's voice.

"God I want... yes, Sherlock, _yes_."

"Tell me when you're close. Fuck...your fist hard, John. Fucking...ugh," Sherlock panted, head pressed back into the pillows, his fringe tickling his tightly-closed eyes. "You have to tell me. And keep pushing your prostate."

"I'm not...mm... not close yet - shit, God - want you... to ride me, _oh_."

The phone perched dangerously on his shoulder as he started to make small circles on his prostate, pressing harder and making his hips buck hard. He cried out, a sheen of sweat on his brow, groaning as his hips thrust in an erratic rhythm.

"Yes yes, make noise, make... _lots_ of noise," Sherlock entreated, huffing for breath. "I'm going to lubricate my fingers...how many, John? How many would best replicate you?"

John groaned, stilling his hips to run his hand over his length. He held himself, thinking, finding it hard to focus. Pressing his fingers flat against his length, he let out a long sigh.

"Start with three," he rasped, his voice thick and deep.

John found himself listening as best he could for the slick, wet sounds of Sherlock preparing himself. Before very long, the phone, now on speakerphone, was bumped against the detective's face again, resting beside him on the plush pillows.

"Oh yes, here we go," Sherlock wheezed, before emitting a shocked, blissful cry.

"Je...sus..."

John thrust hard into his hand, giving a grunt of frustration before he grabbed the bottle of lube he'd found in the drawer. He squirted far too much into his palm before slicking up his cock. When he returned to the previous hold, the next thrust of his hips was slick and hot and-

"Oh my God!" John gasped, shoving his hips forward again, his other hand pressing down with each push forward. "Oh God, oh _Christ_ \- Sherlock!"

"Don't come! Don't come!" Sherlock yelled at him, sounding close to panic.

John ground his teeth and completely let go of himself, raising his hands and taking three quick gulps of air, stopping himself from fucking his fist until he came.

"I'm not, I'm not! Shit, oh fuck, _fuck_!"

"Ah...God, John, that was close. You can't come yet. Oh, Jesus," Sherlock was groaning, slowly coming down himself.

John couldn't form words for a good thirty seconds, instead breathing heavily. His wet fingers fumbled with his phone, putting it onto loud speaker and resting it on the pillow next to him.

"God I want to be inside you," he bit out, his voice tinged with an edge of desperation, his swallows audible.

"Yes...you will. I need you there, John. You need to be part of me. You need to make it all complete," Sherlock whispered, licking his lips and listening to his own hammering heart. "Okay...this is your first time so...one more halt, and then we can come."

John nodded, the voice in his ear before he remembered Sherlock wasn't lying next to him.

"Okay... okay I'm ready."

"Is that alright? Do you ever do it? Or are you impatient with your pleasure," Sherlock asked, calming himself, slowly stroking his own stomach.

John licked his lips.

"I've never tried orgasm denial on myself. I didn't see the point when I'm alone."

"Oh, it gets better and better. You wait and see, John," Sherlock chuckled, sounding more pleased with himself than malicious. "Your head's going to explode."

John smiled, rubbing the lube between his fingers idly.

"You'll have to be strict with me as you're not here to physically make me stop."

"If you want me to ride you into the mattress at any point in the future, then you'd better obey," Sherlock sniggered. "Ready to start again?"

John let out a small groan before he chuckled lightly.

"Yes, sir," he smirked.


	18. Chapter 18

"Good boy," Sherlock laughed approvingly. "When I am physically there, I could always restrain you, you know. Bring you to the edge as many times as I wanted."

John hummed, his stomach knotting. "That sounds wonderfully awful," he chuckled.

"It's a date. I can't wait. Now...has your heart and breathing rate lowered? Because what I'm about to say might kick it up again."

John smiled, putting a hand to his neck and staying silent for half a minute.

"Yes, it's lowered."

"Oh John, I know what you did then. So conscientious. I'm going to ask for a full body check-up when I'm home. Now, you're going to put a finger inside yourself."

John sucked a sharp breath, holding it in as his body went rigid. He took a moment before he let it out slowly.

"You'll... do the same?"

Sherlock giggled, a deep, musical noise. "I already have three. I'm pretending they're you."

John drew out a long moan, shifting on the bed and moving his hand back down to his slick cock. He swallowed a few times, stroking himself as he tried to work up the courage to follow the instructions given to him.

"Talk... talk to me first."

"Don't be concerned if you can't find your prostate. Just embrace the feeling of having something inside you, your body inviting something in for its own pleasure."

John blew a breath through his lips, nodding, before bracing his feet on the mattress and lifting his hips. The hand that had been pushing on his prostate before dipped lower, slowly circling his tight hole. His breath hitched and stopped, came out in harsh bursts and small waves.

"Relax, John. You're safe, and in control. And I'm here with you." John closed his eyes, wishing the slightly tinny representation of Sherlock's voice on his phone was real, and a _lot_ closer.

"Okay, okay."

Biting the inside of his lip, John poured another healthy dollop of lube onto his fingers before he set them back to his arse. With another breath, his eyes flutter closed as he pressed his middle finger inside.

"Oh!"

Sherlock growled out a massively long, indulgent moan in response, and wriggled pleasantly on his bed, pumping his slick fingers gently in and out of himself. "You're doing so well," he praised hoarsely.

John threw his head back, his lips pursed, trying not to squirm at the unfamiliar feeling of being penetrated.

"Sherlock..." he mumbled, pressing his finger in to the first knuckle, shuddering and grinding his teeth.

"Stroke yourself, John, exactly how you like it. I want you close," Sherlock keened, making the most distracting, relentless litany of blissful noises.

John closed his eyes and leaned back, letting Sherlock's voice be his focus as he moved his other hand to grasp his cock. He stroked slowly, languidly, letting the feel of his hand and the soft mewls from the detective draw away from the intrusion. He only noticed his muscles relaxing around his fingers when he wiggled the digit. The feel this time was... different.

"Oh," he said in surprise. "Oh that's..."

He felt himself clench around his finger quite spontaneously, and marvelled at the sense of his pleasure fighting against the resistance inside him, concentrating it.

"John? How do you like it?" Sherlock was asking him, in between little sobs.

John could only groan, pressing his finger in further. He gasped, the hand on his cock stroking harder, spurred on by Sherlock's voice and the strangely erotic clenching of muscles around his finger.

"It's... I... I like it," he marvelled, pressing in until he was at his knuckles. "Oh, shit..."

"Good...lovely...ah...I'm nearly...oh, _God_ ," Sherlock hissed through the loudspeaker, humming in concentration. "Get close John, get so close. Feel yourself balance on the precipice."

John cried out, wiggling his finger as his hand pumped desperately. He rolled his hips in time with his finger, fucking himself before the knot in his stomach clenched and he gasped. He didn't even realise he was speaking until his voice rose.

"God, yes, shit, fuck - Sherlock - oh..."

"Yes, yes, yes! John! Ah, _fuck_!" There came a grating, distorted yell of anguish, followed by gusty breaths and frustrated groans.

"Oh Sherlock, Sherlock I'm - fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm _close_ \- Oh God, I want to...unhh!"

"STOP!" As Sherlock yelled at him, John screeched in his own frustration.

"John, oh, God, next time...yes," the detective was murmuring, sounding overwhelmed. "And I want to see you."

John actually whimpered, finding it so much harder than he thought to pull his hands away. Even without his hand on his cock, his hips still rocked and he let out a strangled sob.

"Fuck yes, I need to see your face when you come."

"How far, John? How far in did you get? Oh, you sounded wonderful," Sherlock sighed happily, calmly slicking up a fourth finger.

John's whole body was trembling, his hands clenching at air as he kept them raised and away from his cock (which was now flushed red and looking neglected).

"All the way," he rasped, panting in exertion.

There was a long contented hum, and Sherlock spoke again. "I'm putting in four. I'm not going to hold back. I'm going to come just from being fucked by them."

John groaned and shifted himself, moving his phone as he got to his knees.

"I need to see you. Will you get on your knees? I want to see what you'll look like when you're riding me."

"Oh, inspired! Yes, John," Sherlock agreed readily. "I'm nearly prepared. Lay back, facing me. I'm going to bounce on your cock until I ejaculate," he chuckled.

John smiled, but it was pained. He wished he could have had Sherlock here - he wanted to see that smirk, feel the warm skin going taut and tense as his muscles flexed and moved and - Christ. It would have to be enough for now. His cock was aching too badly for him to go much longer. John lay with his back to the headboard, propping himself up as he would have done should Sherlock have really been riding him.

"Okay. Are you on your knees?"

"In position, Captain. One moment," Sherlock urged, sounding excited. The detective quickly thumbed through his phone with his dry hand, and rang John on video call.

John licked his lips as the phone went dead, only to come back up as a video call. He took a deep breath, swiping the screen and watching it as it started to connect.

It was a little glitchy, but he soon thrilled to see Sherlock's familiar face, looking deliciously pink, damp and rosy. Once the detective saw him, his flushed face split into a wide, crinkly grin, and he chuckled deeply.

"Hello," the doctor said with an answering, breathless laugh. "I'm really starting to ache now, and I _really_ want to watch you come."

"I absolutely concur, John. Oh, it's good to see you," Sherlock grinned, as if he hadn't seen his flatmate for a week. "Let's not do this again."

John let a tender smile spread over his features, his throat tight that his words were slightly strained.

"The wanking, yes. The arguments and the lying? No."

"Indeed. I would have liked a cuddle after this. Orgasm denial does rather leave me a bit...soppy. In more ways than one," he chuckled, looking genuinely happy. "Do you want to see...just my face?"

John bit his lower lip, trying to hold his phone with his slick fingers.

"I want to see everything."

Sherlock glanced down and around him, judging the logistics of it. "It'll be awkward. I'll show you my fingers...and then just my face. You'll look up as if you were underneath me."

John hummed from the back of his throat. "Okay, yes, fuck yes." He shifted his hips, trying not to touch himself just yet.

"Alright...not the most flattering angle," Sherlock laughed, looking a bit self-conscious as he nibbled his bottom lip, and then dizzyingly pushed his phone behind him. When it focussed once more, it gave a slightly wonky vista of the uncompromising sight of Sherlock's straining, slippery fingers pushed inside himself.

John's eyes went wide, watching as three fingers pressed effortlessly into the tight hole. It was ridiculously sexy and bewildering and John's hand moved to his cock before he could think.

"Fucking _hell_ , you're so fucking gorgeous," he muttered, moaning loudly as he pumped his leaking prick.

"Wait, watch," came Sherlock's disembodied voice, and with envious ease, and a tiny, adorable grunt, Sherlock slipped his fourth finger inside, twisting and probing in a shaking effort to get deeper.

"Ohhhhhhh, Jesus," John breathed, holding the phone in a vice-like grip as he stroked himself with his right hand. The slick sound and quivering hole was such an obscene display that John's hips bucked into his fist and he moaned again.

"God I can't wait until I can taste you again."

John saw Sherlock's taut, rosy backside shudder tellingly, and there were a few anxious gasps. "John, close," Sherlock was muttering, as he hastily placed the phone on the bed in front of him. He gazed down at his screen, his wild black curls and green-fire eyes hypnotising.

John couldn't form words, instead looking up at Sherlock as he moaned and writhed. A mass of pale skin, marred by pink lines was in his vision and fuck, he was beautiful.

"Yes, Sherlock, Jesus you're so fucking gorgeous, oh my _God_."

Sherlock shuffled. "Can you see my face? You have to see what you do to me," he panted, his breath rhythmically catching in such a way that made John suspect that he had ceased being gentle with himself, and was really going for it, fucking himself for dear life.

"Yes, fuck I'm close. Bend over further, I need to see you," John moaned without abandon, his hand flying over his cock, unable to slow down as his orgasm loomed for the third time.

"Tell me how much you want to ride me, how you would fuck me until we couldn't see - oh _shit_."

Sherlock leaned forward, propping himself on one strong, trembling arm, and it only spurred John on to see for himself that his flatmate was going to come with only his fingers inside himself.

"...I...oh..."The detective squinched his damp eyelids shut, his eyelashes spidery with perspiration, and his hairline sticky with rogue tendrils. He was rocking very vigorously now, his lips parted, face contorted in delicious pain. "Need your...hands...mouth," he heaved, before gritting his teeth and groaning helplessly.

"Yes, I'd touch you everywhere, give you everything," he whispered, watching Sherlock's face as it twisted and contorted in blissful agony. "Fuck Sherlock, come for me - only for me, oh _fuck_ I'm so close, I'm so close!"

Sherlock's head suddenly fell forward, his thick curls tumbling wildly, before his head was thrown back again, his jaw clenched very hard, a single hot droplet of sweat slipping down his reddened cheekbone.

Then his whole body stiffened, his eyes opened and he gaped at nothing, before screaming deafeningly, the deep tone practically making the phone vibrate with the sheer volume of it.

The cry was glorious and it was enough to have John's body responding. The orgasm hit him with the force of a brick house, and he couldn't even scream as the first wave slammed into him. After that John vaguely heard himself crying out in a way he had never done, the intensity of his release shocking his body to the core and sending his nerves into overdrive.

The aftershocks were merciless, and the numb finger inside himself was repeatedly crushed with the strength of the contractions of his climax. Shivering violently, buzzing and dry-mouthed, John very gradually came to some of his senses, opening bleary eyes to see that Sherlock had disappeared from his phone screen.

"Sh-" John frowned and tried to wet his mouth, clearing his throat. "Sherlock?" His voice felt scratchy and sore, but delicious. "Sherlock, you still there?"

He grinned woozily when a bedraggled, rumpled, naked and wet detective's face popped into view. "…Ohh, John. I think I passed out a bit there."

John couldn't stop a lazy smile, humming his agreement.

"You weren't joking. Jesus... I don't think I can move."

"You see what I mean? This is prime snuggling time," Sherlock mused, closing his eyes and yawning.

John felt a strange ache in his chest, casting a glance to the empty space in the bed where Sherlock should have been. His skin was cooling quickly, the puddle of come soaking his chest (chest? Jesus) and making him squirm. Having a languid, warm detective at his side would be perfect right at that moment.

"...How long are you going to stay there?" he asked quietly, realising his voice had a slightly needy undertone but hoping the detective wouldn't point it out.

"I'll come home when I wake up," Sherlock promised. "I need to sleep this off. Um…and you'll be there?"

John nodded, feeling fatigue tugging at his limbs.

"I'll be here," he said gently.

Sherlock pushed the top cover to the end of the bed, with a smirk. "I'll call the housekeeper later. Did you make a mess too?" he asked, looking down into his phone screen with an innocent grin.

John cast a glance to the sticky mess coating Sherlock's sheets. He gave the detective a cheeky grin, tapping the phone to turn the camera around briefly.

"Yep."

"Oh, John. I want to smear it on my toast and eat it all up," Sherlock offered, and John wasn't entirely sure whether he was joking or not. "I'm going to shut my eyes for a bit. I'll see you later. Feel free to order in lots of food and alcohol," he beamed ingratiatingly.

John laughed lightly, kicking back the covers and slipping underneath them. He hadn't been lying when he said they smelled like Sherlock, as soppy as it was to admit it. The doctor felt a yawn cracking his jaw.

"M'kay. I'll... see you later."


	19. Chapter 19

It was snowing hard when Sherlock rang the doorbell of the flat. When John peered down from the living room window, he was met with a ghostly-pale, cheery face, and a quick wave from a large gloved hand. The detective's hair was sprinkled with an adorable frosting of snowflakes, as were the shoulders of his damp greatcoat.

John was about to move downstairs to let the man in when Sherlock's attention was drawn to the front door, and it seemed that Mrs Hudson had beaten him to it.

Instead he stepped back into the living room, feeling his heart fluttering at the thought of seeing Sherlock face-to-face again. It was ridiculous, but he couldn't shake it. He moved to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle as the heavy footsteps thudded closer to the flat.

"Tea?" he called, hearing Sherlock entering the flat in a no doubt flamboyant swirl of his coat.

"John!" came the ecstatic-sounding response. John hadn't heard him sound so genuinely excited since the case where it turned out that the murderer was in fact a circus chimp. "Tea and kisses, please," Sherlock announced as he arrived breathless in the flat, glancing around for his doctor.

John felt his smile threatening to tear his face, clearing his throat before he ducked his head through the archway, the sugar bowl in one hand. He barely managed a hello before he was suddenly engulfed in the mass of muscle and limbs.

"Hi," he mumbled, his voice muffled by the front of Sherlock's snow-flecked coat.

John's body didn't know whether to shiver or not when clods of icy, wet snow dropped from Sherlock's coat and hair onto him, not when the toasty, firm body holding him was so delightfully exothermic.

He managed to pull back enough from Sherlock's iron grip to look the man in the face. He was caught by the life blazing in those eyes and he gave the man another lopsided grin.

"C'mere," he said gently, putting one hand on the back of the detective's neck and pulling him down to brush his lips against Sherlock's in a tentative gesture.

Sherlock's lips parted first in an affectionate grin, and then in a firmer, deeper kiss, emitting a deep, rumbling groan into his doctor's mouth.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson abruptly squeaked from the doorway, clapping frantically. "I knew it. I _told_ you!"

John and Sherlock parted as if they'd been caught with their hands in the sugar bowl. John lowered his eyes, wearing a stupid grin, but Sherlock was far from fazed. He always loved having an audience, and with the lingering excitement still thrumming about the man, he turned and faced their landlady with a bright smile.

"Hudders!"

She approached the tall detective, hitting him fondly on the arm and tutting. "I knew it. I knew you were lying. Honestly, as if there was anyone but John."

John raised his head and gave the woman an unimpressed look, raising an eyebrow. "Well it was a pretty convincing show."

"You and your games, Sherlock, I don't know," their landlady fussed. "Playing with us both like that. Is there anything you boys need before I head out?"

John's eyes widened and he jumped in before Sherlock could start listing off everything and anything they would need, with no hesitation or thought for privacy.

"I think we're okay, Mrs Hudson, thank you."

She appeared hesitant, and then beckoned Sherlock closer. He leaned down from his lofty height advantage, and the grin on his face only widened as she whispered to him. When she was finished, Sherlock was on the verge of giggles, and Mrs. Hudson was blushing as she vacated the flat.

John frowned a little, his eyes looking between both of them.

"What was that?"

"Our landlady informs me that the little Boots down the road currently has some really good deals on contraception."

John made some kind of noise from the back of his throat, battling a fit of giggles.

"From what I saw in that drawer, I think we're well stocked."

"I hope you didn't look too hard. I still want to be able to surprise you. Memorise your 'Fuck, what is _that_ ,' face," Sherlock chuckled, kicking off his shoes and easing off his coat and jacket. "I look forward to continuing your education."

John felt a slightly nervous giggle rise in the back of his throat and he looked down, realising he was still holding the bloody sugar bowl.

"Well I need sustenance," he said after a moment, moving back into the kitchen to continue with the tea. John scratched the back of his neck, pouring the water into the mugs steadily.

"Before we, ah, start, can we just talk a little bit? Everything's just... its moving quick and I think we should talk. About us."

Sherlock paused in undoing the top button of a mint-green shirt John had never seen before. It was a ridiculously good match to his icy eyes, which now started at him curiously.

"Whatever for? Are we not...okay? Me and you?"

"No," John said quickly, turning from the counter and facing Sherlock. "No, I didn't mean that. We're fine. Well, I feel like we still have to get over a bit of jealousy and whatnot, but no. I don't mean like that. I just..." John looked away from those eyes, trying to find the words. "I'm still coming to terms with... everything. You know that I've done... things... with a man. But not - I haven't…god sake," he muttered, wondering why this was so bloody hard.

"Are you frightened that I'm going to penetrate you? You know I won't do that, if it's not what you want."

"No, it's not that," he said gently, looking up into Sherlock's face. How did he tell the man that he might not be good enough? Sherlock was used to bringing himself to pleasure, he knew exactly what he liked inside him and how. He'd made it clear that he'd mastered his own pleasure, so how would John compare? He had no experience being inside another man, he had no idea how it was different or how to please him.

"I just want to... maybe just take it a bit slower? Like, mess around first." God, he sounded like a terrified fucking teenager.

"Of course. I'm entirely amenable to 'messing around.' But, you do still want to be my first, don't you?" Sherlock's face clouded faintly with anxiety.

John felt his lips tug nervously, and he stepped forward, wrapping his strong arms around the detective's waist firmly.

"Course I do."

"That's fine, then. I'm not prepared to wait much longer," Sherlock laughed gently, hooking his arms around John's shoulders and kissing the top of his head. "After the phone sex business, well...let's just say that if I wasn't a patient man before, then that really cemented the fact."

John laughed again, sighing in relief. He didn't think he could have fumbled for words much longer.

"I feel like I've created a monster," he teased, placing a chaste kiss to Sherlock's visible collarbone.

"Yes. And it's therefore your duty to tame me. Bring me under control," Sherlock huffed in amusement, nuzzling John's hair briefly.

John took a long breath, the images that those words called to his mind stealing any semblance of a reply. Instead he tilted his head to put his lips to that long, elegant neck, ghosting his lips over the lovely pale flesh. Sherlock's answering breath made him smile, and John was spurred on to add a little more pressure from his lips.

"You do like marking me, don't you," Sherlock observed, still grinning. "I have a call to make. Then, I promise, we can begin the festivities," he promised.

John hummed his slight annoyance before pulling back, smiling gently and returning to the tea that was cooling quickly.

"You make it sound like an event," he mumbled absently, adding a few spoonfuls of sugar into Sherlock's mug and setting it aside, one ear listening out for the phone call Sherlock had to make. Was there a case? Sherlock hadn't mentioned a case, but then again, they had been a little bit... distracted as of late.

Sherlock snaked a hand into his view, plucking up the mug, before the detective wandered off into his bedroom, nudging the door nearly-shut behind him. Seconds later, John heard him speaking, purposely low and muffled.

It took a great deal of willpower not to press his face against Sherlock's bedroom door, instead just hovering in the hall. Finally he scoffed at himself, turning back to the kitchen and rooting through the drawer to find the takeaway menu he knew he put there. Now Sherlock had mentioned food again, he decided he was in need for a Chop Suey.

There was a sudden halt in Sherlock's speech that actually frightened John, more so when the detective flew from the bedroom, plucking the menu from his hands and throwing it over his shoulder carelessly. "Not tonight. Surprise."

John raised his eyebrows, watching the menu float to the floor.

"Oookay," he said slowly, turning to give the man a telling look. "I didn't think you did surprises."

"Not even after I hopped on stage and got an erection from a female lap-dancer? You never did ask about that," Sherlock said with a fiendish smile, eyes narrowing as he casually undid and pulled off his belt.

John opened his mouth, but stopped, because the detective had a point. He'd always assumed Sherlock was asexual, until those moans - but then he'd assumed he was gay. Perhaps there was more to the detective than John had guessed.

"Friction?" he asked, a little dumbly.

Sherlock burst out laughing. "Wrong answer. For that, you must pay a forfeit. Oh, and we have half an hour to kill before...the surprise. Want to snog?"

John pursed his lips, but found he really couldn't deny the man anything. With a heavy sigh, he reached forward and grabbed the Sherlock's collar, yanking him forward.

"Not going to tell me then?" he purred, leaning away slightly as Sherlock moved in for a kiss.

"When we get to the sofa. Try not to get me too aroused, I have to answer the door in thirty minutes. It wouldn't be fitting for such a refined gentleman as myself." Sherlock ducked in quickly for another attempted kiss, but mewled when John playfully avoided him again.

The doctor gave Sherlock a slow grin, putting a hand on his chest and guiding him backwards until Sherlock's legs collided with the couch. He gave him a small shove and Sherlock fell back with a small huff.

"So we're at the sofa," he teased, easily sinking down until he sat on Sherlock's lap. "And no promises about the aroused thing."

"Yes. I find it almost impossible to negate my reactions around you. It's been nightmarish for the longest time. Oh, and that's a hint to your previous question." He slid long, cold hands down John's back, across to his sides, then over his stomach, and finally upwards, till they chilled John's cheeks.

John hummed under the attention, only wincing slightly at the icy fingers cupping his face. God, how hadn't he seen it before? He couldn't remember a time when Sherlock's attraction towards him was obvious, but then again (as Sherlock liked to often point out) John could be quite oblivious sometimes.

"That's not a hint," he said absently, his fingers running over the curve between Sherlock's neck and his shoulder. "Tell me."

"Yes it is, John. It's you. It's always about you. If you need a more obvious hint, I'll give you one."

John frowned, shaking his head, still not quite understanding.

"I don't... what does that mean? How do I fit in with a lapdance?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply, and then let out a long breath that made his damp fringe dance up briefly in the cool air of the flat. "You asked for it, John. You really are so charmingly ignorant sometimes. How about if I told you that I would rather chew off my own arm than get up close and personal with female genitalia?"

John cocked his head a little, sitting back on Sherlock's lap and giving him a small look.

"Then she didn't turn you on?"

"I think it actually scarred me for life. What turned me on was the fact that _you_ were watching, and _you_ were jealous. And then I started imagining...things."

"Oh? Oh..."

John felt heat crawling up his neck and he shifted a little, smirking a little shyly.

"What were you imagining?"

"Now, now, John. I'm not to get aroused, remember. If you purposely give me a towering erection, then you are a very bad man."

"Well, I've never actually said I was a _good_ man, did I?"

"True. For a bad man, John, you hide it very well. You are a master of disguise. More so than me." Sherlock pushed chilled hands into John's short hair, carding it through his fingers, before moving in for a kiss.

This time John didn't back away, instead meeting Sherlock's lips gladly. It was hard to believe, as the man sucked his lower lip, that he'd only been kissed a handful of times. In the last few days. With only John.

"Stop," Sherlock muttered between kisses, "thinking. It makes..." He smooched harder, faster. "...you taste funny."

John let out a long breath, smirking against Sherlock's lips. Instead of answering, John added more pressure to his lips, giving back as good as he got, letting his tongue run over Sherlock's lower lip.

The detective's deep, subsonic rumbles began, sounded like something like an organic engine. John could almost tell by the hitches of Sherlock's breath, and the tense twitches of his mouth and jaw, that he had things that he wanted to say, but couldn't quite break the kissing long enough to say them.

It was a heady feeling, having the eccentric genius speechless, and he let himself hold that power for a few moments before he released him. They let their breath mingle for a few moments, John moving his hand to tease the curls at the base of the detective's neck.

"I think I failed in the 'no arousing' request," he chuckled, rolling his hips to emphasise the slight bulge he could feel in Sherlock's trousers.

"Then you're opening the door. John, have you thought about...positions? For tonight?"

"Positions?" he almost squeaked, remembering all too well how Sherlock had looked during the phone sex. He had to bite back the image of Sherlock riding him.

"I think we're both a bit intrigued by the cowboy position. I'll be the receiver, but still have control. It's ideal."

John opened and closed his mouth, his mind sending him helpful views of Sherlock from all angles, his muscles flexing and writhing under that pale skin as he rode his-

"What about, uh, about the taking it slow?"

"I can make it slow. So slow you'll scream for me to speed up. But I won't. I'll drag out your orgasm until you barely know your own name," Sherlock purred, nuzzling John with a hungry little growl.

"Jesus," the doctor muttered, unable to gather enough saliva to coat his dry mouth. "Are you even listening to me?" he muttered, hands moving up to tangle in Sherlock's curls before he could stop himself.

"Your body is telling me much more than your mouth is," Sherlock laughed, smooching luxuriantly against John's neck, sucking and kissing alternately. "I think -" He was interrupted by the harsh doorbell ringing downstairs. "Ooh. They're early. Better make yourself presentable, John."

"They?" John choked, but Sherlock was already clamouring from underneath him. John got to his feet and shifted his now prominent erection into the lining of his jeans so that it wasn't so obvious, frowning as Sherlock raced down the stairs.


	20. Chapter 20

By the time John joined his flatmate in the chilly foyer, Sherlock was looking absurdly picture-perfect, whilst he himself felt a bit like a rumpled old pervert.

 _If the shoe fits, he thought._

"Be nice to them, John," the detective instructed before opening the door wide, standing behind it and poking his head round. "They made us dinner."

John's eyes went wide as he took in the two people standing in the doorway. A young East Asian woman stood on the top step, her arms laden with some kind of tin-foiled box, with an elderly man standing behind her. John would have thought it was just a regular take-away delivery if it wasn't for the obviously expensive looking suit worn by the man, or the huge diamond studs in the woman's ears. He frowned a little, noticing a plush BMW parked just in front of the flat.

"Hi," he said after a moment, looking up at Sherlock.

"Hello," said the woman smoothly, passing over the warm foiled crate. The elderly man stepped forward then, passing other another box - this one labelled with posh French writing scrawled all over it. John took a second as he came to the realisation that this wasn't a standard delivery. The elder man turned to Sherlock, talking rapidly in a fluid language that John was hard pressed to identify, never mind understand.

Sherlock responded (not perfectly, his words were a bit slow and hesitant - and John found it completely endearing), and bowed politely. A tiny bit more chitchat, and the exotic pair left them to it.

John stepped back, the smell from the foiled crate positively seducing his nostrils, and he looked up at Sherlock questioningly.

"So who were they?" he asked slowly, shifting his balance of the plate and hearing a slight clack from inside.

"The less you know about it, the better, John. Trust me. All you need to know is that they're on our side, they just repaid a favour, and they make the best lo mein in London."

"Huh," he said in a way of reply, following Sherlock up the stairs and back into the flat. He put the crate on the table, wondering just how much they actually had, as Sherlock put the other box next to it.

"Is that wine?"

Sherlock gently wobbled the box, and they were greeted with a glassy clink. "Wine, beer, baijiu. All impeccable. I hope you skipped breakfast," the detective chuckled, beginning to unpack.

John raised his eyebrows, thoroughly impressed. He padded into the kitchen, grabbing plates and glasses before moving back into the lounge. He stopped when he saw Sherlock had taken the foil from the crate, and the array of food insides made his mouth water.

"Jesus, that's all for us?"

"Well, there's loads of room in the fridge for leftovers. After you took out my nettle experiment," Sherlock added darkly.

"Only because it bloody stung me," John mumbled, sitting on the edge of the sofa and passing over a plate to the detective.

"You should learn to wash your hands properly. You said the same after my habanero experiment. It's your fault for fondling yourself so often. Well, that's my job now."

John cocked an eyebrow with a suggestive smirk, shaking his head as he turned to the food. He hardly knew where to start.

"It is. But I need to eat first. Replenish myself after that... interesting phone call."

"Hhm?" Sherlock asked distractedly, through a huge mouthful of spicy noodles. He hastened to chew and swallow, and then nodded in realisation. "Oh yes, the phone sex. Yet another 'first' for me. It's wonderful."

John laughed, twisting his fork into what looked like chow mein, before shoving it into his mouth.

"Never been so intense," he muttered around the food, chewing before reaching out for the alcohol box. He dug through until he found an expensive looking bottle of red wine. He tipped it towards Sherlock, offering it to him.

"Please," Sherlock replied indelicately, reddish sauce marking his chin. He continued to talk with his mouth full. "Lesson two tonight. I'm looking forward to it."

John got to his feet, wandering in the kitchen for a cork screw, opening the bottle with a pop as he heard Sherlock's plans.

"Oh?" he asked, intrigued as he poured them a healthy glassful each. "Gonna let me in on the lesson plan?"

Sherlock paused thoughtfully, and then nodded, his tongue snaking out to retrieve a bean sprout from his bottom lip. "I think you've adequately experienced orgasm denial. When you're feeling robust, we can try it for longer, if you like. But tonight, I think we should try different positions. See which ones work, and why, for both of us."

John swallowed his mouthful of black bean mushrooms, taking a long sweep of Sherlock's body and humming appreciatively.

"I like that plan," he said after a few moments, taking a small sip of his wine. "But I meant what I said before. About... about holding off on, you know, full sex. Just for a bit."

"…We'll see," Sherlock hummed with ominous carelessness. They ate together in comforting quiet, occasionally remarking on a dish, or making an approving noise. Sherlock, as usual, bolted his food and finished before John, and happily took the time to thoroughly molest his doctor.

John tried to focus on the rice dish he was enjoying so much, but he found Sherlock's hand on his thigh much more intriguing. He finally gave up the food with a huff, taking his second glass of wine and sitting back. He looked up at Sherlock, that expression he wore so innocent. As if he weren't steadily moving his fingers towards John's crotch - as if there was anything but hunger in those startling green-grey eyes.

"You all right there?" he asked, playfully, nodding down to Sherlock's hand.

"Yes, I'm fine. I have a fantastic idea, John. Perhaps one of my best." He took the advantage of John's attention on his slightly shiny lips, to slide his hand to gently cover his doctor's warm crotch.

John had his mouth open to ask what this brilliant idea was, but he was caught off guard by the hand pushing teasingly against his groin.

"Oh - oh, what's your um... idea?" he asked, clearing his throat and setting his glass aside, his pupils going wide as he looked between those slender pale fingers and that devilishly wicked face.

Sherlock leaned in close, biting down on his plump bottom lip. His green-fire eyes burned into John's, as if trying to hypnotise him. "I think we should take this wine, and go to the bedroom, and take all our clothes off."

John couldn't stop a grin spreading over his features, moving in time with the detective and getting to his feet. He grabbed his glass and the unopened bottle, looking over his shoulder to see Sherlock not two steps behind.

Sherlock was already more chatty, the wine having gone to his head. "Are there any drink sexing games? Um, sex drinking games? I think we should do that too."

John let out a small giggle, opening the door to Sherlock's bedroom. "There are drinking games, but I don't know about sexing - _sex_ \- drinking games."

"Never mind. We just do them separately. And you can properly, _finally_ see my penis."

John set the wine of the bedside table, glad he'd had the afterthought when he woke to change Sherlock's bed. "That... would be brilliant," he smirked.

"'I'm not gay, but I want to see your penis,' fantastic," Sherlock giggled, a deep, rumbling sound, his hand curled in front of his mouth as his face crinkled delightfully.

John chuckled and shook his head. "Get over here, you arse."

"So you can get inside it," Sherlock observed teasingly, before doing a running jump onto the bed, groaning with the impact, and then giggling some more. "Undress me."

John felt heat prickle the back of his neck before he gasped, Sherlock jumping on the bed with all the grace of a bloody turnip. He laughed and rolled towards him, more than happy to follow those demands. It wouldn't be a fast process, though, oh no. He would take his time with this, because he could, and because he knew it would drive the impatient detective crazy. John shifted to his knees, moving Sherlock onto his back, sighing at the wonderful expanse of hard body underneath him. He ran his hands over the flat of Sherlock's chest, the soft material of his shirt feeling delicious under his rough palm.

"Oh... m'gonna enjoy this."

"Mmh," Sherlock agreed, his eyes already darkening as he followed the movement of his doctor's sure, safe hands. "Do you like my shirt? I bought it to arouse you."

John sighed as he nodded, leaning down to brush his cheek over the mint-green material. "Love it," he muttered, reaching up to undo the first button of Sherlock's shirt. A little glimpse of pale skin made him sigh, before he leaned forward and kissed the flesh he could see.

Sherlock let out a gusty, indulgent sigh, closing his eyes lightly and smiling. He hummed appreciatively with every kiss, rocking his head slightly from side to side with the heady sensation.

The taste of Sherlock's skin was addictive; a new kind of drug, and John opened his mouth against the flesh, revealing it a button at a time.

"Oh," Sherlock uttered sharply, writhing his hips sensuously against the bed. "Oh...yes...kisses...those are very good," he mused, his expression utterly blissful.

John smiled against Sherlock's breastbone, moving downwards a little more before giving the man a soft nip.

A harsh little grunt, Sherlock baring his teeth briefly. "Promise you'll do that when you're inside me," the detective entreated breathlessly.

John let out a small moan against Sherlock's abdomen, his hands stilling his movements.

 _I'd do anything for you, Sherlock._

"If you're good," he teased, nipping at him again.

"No promises," Sherlock replied, voice straining a little as he propped himself up awkwardly on his elbows to watch. By way of explanation for his un-questioned action, he said calmly, "I want to be able to see, the first time you put your mouth on me."

John had moved between Sherlock's legs, his mouth hovering over his bellybutton, and as he flicked his eyes upwards he felt his mouth go dry at the wondrous expression on the detective's face.

"Then get comfortable," he smirked, letting his tongue dart out to run over Sherlock's abdomen while keeping their eyes locked.

"God, John. I can try...not to ejaculate if you...do that. With your mouth. But it's going to be intense," Sherlock whispered, taking a fortifying breath, feeling irrationally nervous.

John put his cheek against Sherlock's belly, feeling the small dusting of hair tickle his skin. "Good. I've... only done this twice, so, you know. Might not be mind-blowing."

"...I think you already have an idea of how stimulating I'm finding this," Sherlock laughed, nudging his stiff erection gently against his doctor's body. "I've never had anyone's mouth on me like this."

John couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, finding it hard to believe. Part of him comforted himself with that knowledge, though.

If Sherlock had never had it before, then he might enjoy it anyway even if John was awful. The doctor tried to push away his doubts and fears as his hands moved up to slowly pop open the top button of the detective's trousers, feeling his breath catch in his throat.

He secretly thrilled when a drawn-out yowl of pleasure hit his ears, vibrating into the cool, close air of the bedroom. Sherlock reactively pushed his hips against John, licking his lips repeatedly.

The man was so excited that it was endearing, but the bucking wasn't helping him get the trousers off any quicker.

"Lift your hips," he said once he'd pulled down the fly, hooking his fingers in the lip of Sherlock's trousers and his boxers, ready to relieve him of them as soon as he had the space to.

He narrowly avoided a hard cock in the eye as Sherlock eagerly and instantly complied, his breathing audibly ragged.

John let out a small giggle, hooking the clothes over his cock before pulling them down his legs in one swift flourish. Then Sherlock was suddenly bare in front of him, and John couldn't stop a throaty moan.

"Jesus... you're fucking gorgeous."

Sherlock peered down with bleary eyes, his expression one of blissed-out disbelief, before sobbing and throwing his head back. "No...yes...touch it?" he babbled.

John groaned, his fingers moving up Sherlock's thighs, squeezing gently before running over his groin. Now wasn't the time for teasing, he knew, but he wanted to savour this because the man was fucking _delicious_. He had to touch him, grasping Sherlock's hard, flushed cock in his right hand and humming at the heavy, hot feel of it.

"Agh, God!" Sherlock yelled, the volume of it assailing John hard. The doctor was stunned and hypnotised by the thin stream of liquid that eased from the firm flesh in his hand, which was twitching in blind anticipation.

The doctor took steady breaths as he moved his thumb to smear the glistening pre-come over the tip of the man's cock, eyes moving up to watch that face twist and contort in agonised pleasure.

"I'm very close - would you perhaps...penetrate me a little too," Sherlock asked croakily, frowning and panting.

"Oh God..." John muttered, releasing Sherlock long enough to lean over and pull open the drawer. He scrambled past cold rubber to grab the bottle of lube, moving back to hover over the man. He felt a little lost as he poured a generous amount onto his fingers, watching Sherlock for any sign he was doing this wrong.

"One will be enough. But _deep_ ," Sherlock instructed, spreading his legs a little more and angling his hips shamelessly towards his doctor.

The sight of Sherlock completely splayed out for him, without shame or modesty, sent a bolt of heat to his own cock and he could only imagine how wonderful it would feel to ram into that lovely puckered flesh and thrust until they were both screaming.

He rubbed his fingers together, smearing the lube around before leaning over the man again. He moved his hand to Sherlock's arse, tracing his tight entrance and coating him first.

John smiled, shifting himself to his elbows, resting the tip of his finger against Sherlock's entrance.

"I want you to come," he said, his voice low. "I want to taste you." And before the detective could speak again, John moved his mouth to engulf the man's cock as he pressed his index finger through the first ring of muscles in Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock's whole body stiffened, and jolted violently, some of his joints distantly cracking, before he screeched, long, hard, and _incredibly_ loud. John was taken by complete, shocking surprise as he abruptly found himself with a hot, choking mouthful of come.

It was already so far down that he would either cough it everywhere (and how un-sexy would that be) so before he could cough it all up, John swallowed the mouthful of salty goo, only wincing slightly at the taste.

Sherlock was wailing, his whole body twisting around, and his hands fluttering vaguely near his own crotch, trying to ease out the almost-painful aftershocks with touch. "John...John, God! Oh, _God_..."

John wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand, craving a drink but too enraptured by Sherlock's writhing movements. He leaned down next to the other man, cupping his sharp jaw and forcing him to focus.

"…Was that good?" he asked, his throat feeling a little rough.

XXXXXXXX


	21. Chapter 21

He grunted when Sherlock's damp, warm hands grabbed his face, and the detective engaged in a desperately passionate and noisy snog. Sloppy and lazy and wet, John melted into it, but that tongue licking his lips did nothing but stoke the heat in his stomach and the hard strain in his cock.

As if reading his mind, Sherlock sighed happily and snaked a hand down John's body, a bold bee-line to his still-clothed erection.

"Lemme..." he began, mumbling into John's mouth, the rest of his words disappearing into the kiss.

John hummed into Sherlock's mouth, shifting himself further onto his side to give Sherlock more access.

Suddenly pulling back for air with a massive inhale, Sherlock grinned at his doctor. "Tell me what to do for you. I can get hard again quickly, if you...if that's something you'd like."

John bit his lower lip, thinking quickly so as to not get distracted by that wicked smile.

"Maybe... Maybe you can show me... I mean..." John felt a fool, his bravado leaving him as he hesitated with what he wanted, what he wanted to try. With Sherlock. Only Sherlock.

"Maybe you can use your... ah... fingers. On me."

"Yes! John, yes, fantastic. I'll finger you. I can't wait to show you how incredible it feels." Sherlock scrambled down the bed, grabbing John's jeans and undoing the button and zip with lightning speed. "Top off. You have to be naked."

John could hardly blink before Sherlock was forcing him out of his jeans, and demanding he relinquish his top. He chuckled and sat up, pulling off his t-shirt with a sigh, a rush of cold air against his skin making him shiver.

"I'll warm you up," Sherlock announced, crawling over his flatmate and promptly laying on top of him, his lean body surprisingly heavy, almost crushingly-so. Before John could speak, the detective had trapped him in another deep, dizzying snog.

John moaned against the other's mouth, spreading his legs to make room for Sherlock between them. "God, you're..." he mumbled, unable to finish his sentence under the force of Sherlock's tongue.

"You too, John, you too. I'm going to be inside you. Deep…oh John, we're going to make love," he babbled, as if the doctor didn't already have a good idea of what was about to happen.

He sucked in a breath around Sherlock's lips, rolling his hips subconsciously as his hands grabbed at any inch of Sherlock's skin he could reach.

"Oh, need you," he muttered, hissing as his cock rubbed against Sherlock's hip.

"Mmm, yes," Sherlock agreed distractedly, rolling his hips and bumping his semi into John, playfully easing it down between his legs, and under his balls.

John gasped, his eyes going wide but unseeing as he felt Sherlock's cock traverse his balls. It was so intimate that it made his cheeks flush, his heart stutter, and a long moan roll from his lips.

"What do you think?" Sherlock cooed encouragingly, pushing ever-so-gently against his perineum with his rapidly-swelling, damp cock.

John gulped in air, trying to keep his thoughts from scattering. The gentle press against his perineum was sparking little jolts of pleasure into his aching erection and he groaned. The difference between Sherlock's cock and his own finger was apparent, in girth and pressure, and the doctor felt his breathing hitch.

"Feels... good," he whispered, a flutter of sound leaving his throat as Sherlock pressed a little harder.

"Yes? You think you'd like it inside you, some time? Sometime soon? I want to know you from the inside out, John."

" _God_ ," he gasped, biting down on his lower lip as the tip of Sherlock's cock pressed back and forth, the remains of his orgasm making his skin slick. A niggle of fear ran down his neck at the thought of being open, but it was soothed by fluttering kisses over his jaw. "I - I think so."

"Oh, God John. You'll be my first. I'm going to fuck you," Sherlock mumbled subsonically, sucking hard on John's left trapezius muscle, and pumping his hips harder, his cock stabbing insistently against John's unyielding flesh.

The curse word was so obscene coming from those lips and John moaned, so loud that he felt Sherlock jump. He shoved his head back into the pillow, nearly whimpering as his neglected cock strained against his stomach.

"Sherlock," he whispered desperately.

"God, you really want it, don't you," Sherlock whispered, gnawing affectionately on his doctor's throat. "Are you ready for my fingers? I need you to stay still for me. No wriggling around,"

John writhed even before he was told to stay still. He felt like he was about to burst.

"God - yes, OK, yes, _shit_."

"Will you behave for me? Do as I say? Trust me with your pleasure?" Sherlock asked, one hand snaking down to give John a couple of firm, tight tugs.

John let out a small cry, bringing a hand to cover his mouth and subdue the sounds threatening to escape. He took a few heavy breaths, nodding fiercely and rolling his hips into Sherlock's hand.

The detective finally pulled back, looking flushed and very pleased with himself. "Then lubricate my fingers. Prepare them. I want you to be involved in the process."

John felt himself tense, about to ask how the fuck he was supposed to help when he was so wound up, but stopped himself. Instead he gave himself a moment to gather his thoughts, turning to reach for the lube. With the cold tube in hand, John popped the lid before looking over the detective. He cocked his head a little, taking Sherlock's wrist in his hand before bringing two of the detective's fingers and putting them in his mouth, teasing them with his tongue.

Sherlock seemed surprised, his mouth making a wonderful, awed heart-shape. John grinned at the idea of doing something that hadn't factored into the detective's game plan.

He sucked the digits harder, coating them in saliva and teasing the tips with his tongue, keeping his eyes firmly on Sherlock's face and watching a mixture of reactions flitter over his features.

"Oh...That's not quite...but I like it," the detective admitted, his grey-green eyes fixated on John's mouth.

John sucked a few more times before he released Sherlock's fingers, feeling incredibly pleased with himself.

"Then I promise to do it again. Somewhere... else."

"...I wasn't sure you liked it enough to repeat the experience," Sherlock huffed, finally meeting John's indigo eyes.

The doctor chuckled, a little breathless, before shaking his head.

"Was just surprised. But of course I'd repeat it. Anything to hear you moan."

"Anything? _Really_ ," Sherlock confirmed, repeating John's words with ominous surety. "That's very good to know."

John narrowed his eyes slightly, realising the leeway he'd just given Sherlock. To distract him, John hooked a hand around his neck and pulled him down for a fierce kiss.

"Weren't you going to do something fabulous to my arse just now?"

"Lay back, John. Pillow under your hips. And think of England," Sherlock joked, flashing a grin and gently pushing his doctor backwards.

John let out a quick burst of laughter, shaking his head before doing as he was told. "Queen and country," he muttered, grabbing a pillow from under his head and shifting it under his hips.

"You should be used to it, _soldier_ ," Sherlock quipped, taking a few seconds to appraise his doctor's naked, waiting body with a loud, lascivious sigh.

"Not thinking about the bloody Queen," he quipped, leaning his head back as he tried not to squirm under Sherlock's sharp eyes.

"What about me? I believe that's the right term," Sherlock chuckled, beginning to run his cool, slippery fingers up and down John's perineum, prodding gently on occasion.

John's mouth opened to reply, but was cut off by a sharp moan. "You? Well..." he struggled, his breath coming out in sharp bursts. "That's a whole other train of thought."

"Did you ever think about me? Sexually? Before all this," Sherlock asked, dipping the tips of his fingers quickly, shallowly, and repeatedly, inside his doctor's ring of muscle.

John's breathing got harder with every small press against his arse, the muscles tensing and relaxing in time with the smooth caresses. "I... yes," he said slowly, feeling as though the fingers were merely distracting him while Sherlock drew out every answer he wanted. It was manipulation tactics, but he was loving it anyway.

"Did you think about screwing me? Humping me like an animal? Fucking me into submission?" Sherlock began to thrust harder, his fingers curling slightly, not yet reaching his prostate.

John groaned low, the finger playing inside him drawing all his focus that he struggled to make sense of Sherlock's words. "Oh my... God," he gasped, biting hard at his lower lip. "Ohhhh Christ..."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully as he smoothly slid in with two fingers, just holding them there, scissoring a miniscule amount, halting his thrusts for the moment.

"Do you know what I wonder, John?"

John let out a throaty grunt of frustration as the fingers stopped, lifting his head to look at Sherlock, his chest rising and falling harshly.

"What do you wonder?" he panted, knowing the man wouldn't continue until his curiosity was sated.

Sherlock started pumping his paired fingers faster, but still not deeply. Still, nowhere near his prostate. "I wonder, what would be different, had I just taken you home that first night. The night that I knew I had finally found what I needed. Had I just asked you to make love to me, and make everything right."

John arched his back, the feel of his fingers pressing against the soft walls not coming anywhere near enough.  
"I... I don't know," he said almost desperately. "I probably would have said yes."

"The important thing is that you're saying 'yes' now, I suppose," Sherlock smirked, before finally, blessedly, easing his fingers forward very slowly, nudging the edge of John's prostate.

John's body tensed as the fingers pressed deeper, the pressure of having something in his arse noticeable, but not painful. Sherlock moved so close to his prostate that he sucked in a breath, holding it until it burned, only to let it out in a frustrated huff as the man pulled back again.

"You're such a tease," he muttered, bringing his hands above his head to keep them from forcing Sherlock's fingers deeper.

"I take it you're ready for a little more?" Sherlock queried. "More...speed, perhaps?" He asked, giving a rapid series of blinding thrusts, before halting. "Or, more depth?" With a smooth, unhurried movement, he finally pushed deeper, crooking his fingers and gently pushing against John's prostate.

John whimpered as Sherlock moved faster, and then when he pushed deeper the doctor let out some kind of horrifyingly high-pitched noise. There was a sudden burst of electricity, so sharp and incredible that it was too much. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my _fucking_ God..."

"I think I have my answer," Sherlock chuckled, his mouth and eyes crinkling into deceptively-innocent smiles. He slid two of his long fingers as far as they would go, pumping his knuckles firmly against his doctor's opening, whilst his digits probed deeply inside his blood-hot body.

John squirmed into the intrusion, thinking that he was moving away from the intensity but was actually forcing his body harder onto Sherlock's hand. He let out a long, hard breath, the pleasure pushing him so close to the edge. "Oh fuck, Sherlock touch me - shit, shit, shit - touch me, touch me, touch me." John thrust his hips for good measure, rocking back onto Sherlock's fingers.

"Umm, _no_." The answer was blunt and matter-of-fact. Sherlock quickly ramped up the speed, biting his lip in glee as he built up a relentless rhythm, thudding quickly, unerringly, against the bundle of nerves within his writhing doctor.

"Ah! Ah, oh, Sherlock!" John felt his hands curling against the headboard, the curling in his stomach tightening as Sherlock pressed mercilessly on his prostate. "Oh, please! Sherlock... fuck...Harder."

"Are you going to come, John? Are you going to climax? I want to see it. I want to _feel_ it. You truly are stunning." As he finished speaking, the detective pumped harder, his pale hand blue with veins, slick and glossy with lubricant.

"So close... Sherlock..." John couldn't take a whole breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he fought to give in to the heat snaking down his thighs, pitting in his stomach. "Kiss me," he whispered, a desperate edge to his tone. "Kiss me, Sherlock - _Sherlock_!"

Sherlock was shocked enough to stop and stare at him for a few silent seconds, before processing the request with a few rapid blinks. He leaned down, keeping his fingers in place, anchoring John's pleasure, and pressed his mouth to his doctor's.

John sucked in a sharp breath before meeting Sherlock's lips with a clack of teeth. He wound both hands around Sherlock, yanking him down as Sherlock's fingers pressed against his prostate hard enough to push him over the edge. "I'm going to-"

Sherlock silenced him with a hard, airless kiss, and slipped in a third finger, pounding against John's prostate as quickly as he could.

John could feel the vibration of noise in his chest, and he felt Sherlock flinch against him - but he couldn't say he felt much more than the force of his orgasm. It hit him so hard he was sure he went blind for a moment, his brain coming to a complete stop before flickering back on and being hit with wave after wave of pleasure.

One of the first things he saw, with bleary eyes, was Sherlock's face, gawping beautifully at him, lips parted, skin flushed and rosy, his fingers (of _both_ hands, John realised belatedly) cradling his face.

He blinked, slowly, trying to clear his eyes enough to focus. "Holy shit," he whispered.

"Oh, John, you're back with me," Sherlock huffed, looking relieved. He kissed him gratefully, before giving what John could only describe as a 'boop' with his nose against his wet forehead.

John let out a long breath, trying to smile but feeling utterly decimated from the force of his orgasm. He couldn't even form another proper word, instead still putting himself back together after being so thoroughly shattered.

"Wasmn - wasm... was 'mazing."

"Thank goodness. I thought I'd broken you. Or, maybe I did," Sherlock chuckled, kissing the top of his head fondly a few times.

John smiled faintly, his eyes fluttering closed as he revelled in his fantastic orgasm and the warmth of the man hovering next to him. "Least... we can cuddle this time," he murmured, reaching out for Sherlock's arm and tugging him closer.

The detective snuggled him close, sighing contentedly. "There's something I should tell you John, whilst we're basking in lassitude."

John opened his eyes blearily, but decided against it as his vision threatened to waver. "Mm?"

Sherlock pulled back to kiss him on the ear, before speaking.

"I'm hard again."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


	22. Chapter 22

_I'm hard again._

John had started to float in the space between sleep and consciousness, until Sherlock's words snapped him out of his reverie. He couldn't stop the smile spreading over his features, looking up at Sherlock. "Are you now?"

"Yes. But I can wait. A bit," Sherlock added, nuzzling his doctor shamelessly, smooching random bits of hot, wet skin. "It was beautiful."

John let out a small grunt of pleasure, wrapping his arm loosely around the detective. "Your orgasm?"

"Yours. Beautiful," Sherlock repeated. "Just when I thought I couldn't love you much more," he laughed airily.

John's eyes snapped open at those words, whispered so tenderly against his skin and yet with so much meaning that John couldn't focus. He opened his mouth, the words refusing to form on his tongue. "Well it was certainly a new experience for me," he said after a few tense moments of silence.

"I'm glad I could give that to you. I can't wait for the main event," Sherlock hummed happily.

John felt a nervous giggle rise up his throat, and he clamped it down before it took a hysterical turn. "I'm sure you'll find a way to be patient."

"I can wait till you're hard again. Though to be fair, we do have a lifetime to explore everything," Sherlock sighed, continuing to drop peaceful little kisses on his doctor. John groaned internally, really wishing the detective would stop saying things like that.

"We've certainly got plenty of time," he mumbled, swallowing thickly against the lump forming in his throat.

"Thankyou for giving me a blow-job, John," Sherlock said as he sat up, pouring more wine for them both, and stretching his arms with a luxuriant sigh.

John managed to push himself up against the headboard and accept the glass on wine, sipping gently as he watched Sherlock stretch. He was all wiry muscle under pale skin, slight, but with definition. He couldn't say it was a bad sight.

"You don't have to thank me," he said with a small smile, his voice feeling scratchy and tender.

"So," Sherlock asked, licking his lips delicately, before _indelicately_ gulping some more sweet wine. "It's nearly time."

"Time?" he asked, burying his face in the wine glass to keep his eyes glued to something other than Sherlock's slender neck.

"For me to lose my virginity. Quite a momentous occasion, I think you'll agree." Finishing his glass with a few big swallows, the detective playfully eased across John's lap, straddling him, and lancing him with those ice-green eyes.

John swallowed his mouthful of wine audibly, both hands clutching the delicate glass as he took in the sight of Sherlock hovering above him. "We... agreed to wait on that," he said slowly, blinking repeatedly to try and come to terms with the devilish grin on the detective's face.

"We had the foreplay, the sensual food and wine, the starter orgasms. What more is there to wait for?" Sherlock had begun stroking John steadily, persuasively, without breaking eye contact for a second.

John ground his teeth against the touch, his cock still incredibly sensitive after his earth-shattering orgasm. "S... waiting on sex," he stammered.

"I've waited many years, John. You wouldn't deny me this, would you? Wouldn't begrudge me this new experience?" Sherlock let go of his cock, instead moving close to kiss him tenderly, whist beginning to slowly undulate his own hips in anticipation.

John felt himself moan into Sherlock's mouth, unable to hold it back, the wine sloshing dangerously in his hand. "I can't... we shouldn't... I - I just want to wait a little longer," he tried, even though the assault on his mouth was ridiculously distracting.

"Oh, John, I -" Sherlock suddenly froze, his words suspended, his eyes staring. After a few seconds, enlightenment, and a kind of fiendish acknowledgement spread over Sherlock's sex-flushed face.

"You are _full_ of surprises."

John cocked his head, frowning. "I - I am?"

"It's alright, John. Never be ashamed of your pleasure. I'll give you everything you want. _Need_ ," Sherlock promised, with a glint in his eyes as he slid back off of John's lap, starting to kiss his way down his thighs.

John gasped, feeling a few stray droplets of wine over his hand before he managed to set it on the bedside table. It suddenly became clear that this night had been meticulously planned by the detective. The food. The wine. The shirt. Sherlock had been seducing him, and he felt a fool for not realising it sooner.

He opened his mouth to say something but his words caught in his throat as he felt the soft brush of Sherlock's lips against his inner thigh.

"Sherlock!" he gasped, heat pooling on his cheeks. "What... oh shit..."

"Know that you are free to say no anytime. Also know, that I don't think you'll say it," Sherlock huffed, his laugh heating and dampening John's thigh, before those plump lips began to suck and nip at his flesh. Two large, strong hands were ever-so-gently pushing his legs apart.

John felt his heart drop to his arse, coincidentally where Sherlock was focussing his attention. He felt far too exposed with Sherlock's curls hovering between his legs, the detective splaying his thighs. The blush on his cheeks deepened and he took a shaky breath.

"What are you going to do?" he whispered.

"I'm going to eat you out," came the blasé response, though Sherlock did lift up his head, his eyes questioning, to confirm that he did, indeed, have permission.

John's eyes were wide, but he could hardly say no. Not when Sherlock looked so delightfully flushed (and yes, maybe he wanted to know what it felt like).

"John? Can I put my tongue inside you?" Sherlock pressed, uncertain about the factual response of John's wide eyes. Was he horrified, or thrilled?

John felt his jaw fall open, and his tongue felt too heavy to respond. Instead he just nodded, eyes stuck to Sherlock to watch in fascination. He wouldn't be able to see much, but he'd be damned if he didn't try.

"Let me see it. Move down a bit," Sherlock instructed, hooking his hands under John's buttocks and trying to hoist him forwards.

"Jesus," he muttered in surprise. Swallowing again, John eased himself further down the bed as Sherlock scrambled to bend him in half.

"Really? Why not bloody hook my legs around-" John cut himself off, his face burning as he realised what he'd just suggested.

"Oh, fantastic. I bow to your superior knowledge in this field," Sherlock nodded, lifting John's legs and placing them over his shoulders, grunting a little at the surprising weight.

John wondered when 'eating out arses' had become 'his field.'

John brought a hand to cover his eyes, trying to digest the fact that he was bollock naked, with the world's only Consulting Detective between his thighs - oh, and his legs over Sherlock's shoulders. This wasn't what he'd planned - maybe a hand job, a blow job at the most. Now he was splayed out, baring all, and waiting for the man to 'eat him out'. He wasn't drunk enough for this.

"You won't be able to- just lean on your elbows," he muttered, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock's inquisitive look. John raised an expectant eyebrow.

When Sherlock finally did as he was told, John adjusted himself, bracing his feet on Sherlock's shoulders, breathing through the blush as the new angle set his arse and balls right in front of Sherlock's face. "God," he breathed, lying back and letting his eyes flutter closed.

"That's it, John. Don't think. Just feel. This really is an incredible view," Sherlock confessed with quiet awe, his words perhaps more suited to a tourist first laying eyes on the Grand Canyon.

John let out a small grunt in response, blinking up at the ceiling. "All I can feel is your eyes on me," he said, a little grumpily.

"I'm enjoying this very much. This kind of intimacy is brand new to me."

John winced a little at the sound of Sherlock taking a deep breath, and then the detective was nosing under his testicles, nudging their weight, before kissing across his perineum. His strong hands supported the doctor's backside, kneading subconsciously.

John gasped, biting on his lower lip as his thighs tensed, threatening to close.

"Just... Go... Slow."

"Don't worry," Sherlock replied, his deep voice sounding far away. "I could stay here for hours." The brunette pressed very lingering, soft, hot kisses at his rim, waiting patiently for John to relax.

John gasped at the feel of Sherlock soft lips to his hole, the muscles quivering at the touch but still lax from the detective's fingers not long ago.

"It... feels strange." he breathed, biting his lower lip.  
Sherlock pressed his closed mouth across the warm opening, and hummed gently, whilst thumbing little shapes into John's backside.

John let out a long breath, his muscles tensing and releasing, moving his hands into Sherlock's slightly- damp curls. He didn't move the man, but he felt better holding him, as if he had some kind of control.

Sherlock took a little break to move back up, lipping and suckling at John's sac, before licking a few hot lines up his penis. He shifted one of his hands to rest upon the one nestled in his hair, and he intertwined their fingers lightly.

It was startling to John, that this seemed the most intimate and daring move yet.

The doctor took a moment to analyse the feel of Sherlock's hand within his. Slender fingers, hot palm, slightly sweaty and completely... amazing. John squeezed Sherlock's hand, telling him in his own silent way that this was right. That he felt it too, whatever it was. More than pleasure, more than sex.

Sherlock gave his tip a hard, affectionate suck in response, before shifting back down, and returning to the business of opening his doctor up. "Try and relax," came the detective's voice, hot and rumbling against John's skin.

Anchored by Sherlock's hand and comforted by his voice, John nodded, letting his head fall back to the pillow. He let the tension in his coiled muscles go, one at a time, unwinding his body to let his legs go slack.

"Yes...so good," Sherlock was murmuring. He flattened his tongue and pushed it over John's tight opening, not threatening to enter, and felt it twitch. He did this repeatedly until the defensive twitches became continual little pulses of pleasure.

John hissed and pressed himself harder into the mattress, the hand not holding Sherlock's moving to cover his mouth, his breath coming out in harsh bursts. He made himself relax against the strange tingles of pleasure.

"Oh..." he breathed, chewing his lower lip.

The resultant approving purr from Sherlock's throat was low and mellifluous, and he slowly narrowed his tongue, still not pushing to penetrate, just easing the wet muscles into submission.

"Christ - Jesus," John gasped, close to wriggling away from the intense feeling stirred by the detective's tongue. He moved his hand to Sherlock's curls, back up to his face. His cock was twitching from the strange pleasure, rising from the stimulation. "You... are very good with your tongue," he said, his voice laced with disbelief. " _Very_ good, shit."

Sherlock paused minutely and his breath hitched with pleasure at the compliment. With a happy hum, he shifted on sore elbows back up to John's cock, sucking enthusiastically, wanting to see it back at full-mast. In the meantime, his forefinger circled his doctor's opening gently, keeping it stimulated.

John squirmed before sighing, his cock engulfed in such wonderful wet heat that he could hardly stand it.

"Oh my God, Sherlock," he whispered, the words followed by a long, drawn out moan. His throat felt raw from the last screaming session, and now the detective was drawing out more deep sounds. "Feel fucking amazing," he cooed, pulling the hand still bound in his own to his face. He couldn't even explain why, but the doctor found himself planting a small kiss to the inside of Sherlock's wrist.

Sherlock responded with another squeeze of John's hand, and a sharp kiss to his stomach. Before he slipped back down between his legs, John caught the look of ferocious intensity that he recognised as a sign of any kind of overwhelming emotion in his flatmate.

John wondered at Sherlock pausing and adjusting himself awkwardly on the bedspread, until he remembered that he too was aroused, and possibly was becoming exponentially more so. He noted too, somewhat delightedly, that Sherlock was moaning faintly, as he began to press his tongue a little more insistently against the ring of muscle, ready to breach it.

"Oh God, yes," he muttered, his breathing becoming erratic at the thought of Sherlock's slick tongue pressing inside him. "Do it, yes, it's OK, it's alright, please."

John felt a little bereft as Sherlock pulled his hand back, so that in one dizzying move he could thumb apart John's buttocks, lower his glorious head and plunge his tongue inside him.

The yelp that followed the action would have been embarrassing if it was anyone else, he was sure. A burst of moans escaped his lips at the feel of the hot muscle plunging into the most intimate part of his body.

"Fuck _me_ , Jesus fucking _Christ_ Sherlock!" he babbled.

John panted in disappointment when Sherlock pulled back abruptly, but was soon overcome with concern at the uncertainty on his flatmate's face as he looked up.  
"Um...are you sure? I don't think you're wet enough yet..."

John blinked, turning his head, his eyes still clouded from the pleasure. "Huh?"

"If you...if you think it's okay though," Sherlock said, looking adorably flustered, but also cautiously excited. He got onto his knees and took himself in hand, slicking himself with his own copious pre-come.

John frowned, somehow managing to gather himself enough to push his top half up on his elbows. He felt dizzy and befuddled from Sherlock's tongue, and it took him until Sherlock moved forward for him to realise what the detective was planning on doing. "Sherlock?" he said quickly, his tongue feeling heavy. "Sherlock-"

He had the hazy-eyed detective's full attention, and he chose his words carefully. "Sherlock...I really, _reall_ y liked what you were doing. Just this once...could you finish me off that way?"

Sherlock blinked at him, those sharp green-grey eyes watching him steadily before his body straightened with realisation. The doctor found himself flushed with guilt as a dusting of colour rose up the detective's neck. John could feel the air shifting towards tension, to awkward. John raised his hands, holding them out for Sherlock to take, stopping himself from apologising profusely and making the whole situation worse.

"...So...what I was doing...that was alright?" Sherlock queried, his hands fidgeting.

"That was fucking brilliant," he said gently, offering the detective a bright smile. "C'mere. Come kiss me a minute."

Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes, which looked remarkably green against the self-conscious red flush on his high cheekbones. "Don't be silly John. I just had my tongue in your rectum."

John felt a small chuckle bubble in his throat. "And I can still taste your come. We're both gross. Now kiss me."

He let out a relieved breath as Sherlock settled in his arms, then he tightened them reflexively. He turned his head and moved forward before Sherlock could protest, bringing their lips together with a wet smack.

"This feels very odd," Sherlock pondered aloud. "'Pre-coital' snuggling."

Even so, he melted into the hug, trying to quietly make himself as small as possible, so as to fit more naturally within his doctor's embrace.

John smiled, taking in the smell of Sherlock's skin. "A good odd, I hope?"

"Everything about us is 'good odd.' Including my tongue in you, I hope. Can I carry on in a minute? I would quite like to make you orgasm."

"Oh, feel free. And you can tell me how I can return the favour."

Sherlock's eyes flashed, and he murmured a reply.

"Don't worry about that. I'm sure I'll think of something."

XXXXXXXXXXX


	23. Chapter 23

_I'm sure I'll think of something._

John opened his mouth to respond, to remind Sherlock that he wanted to hold out - but his words were caught as the man turned in a mass of limbs and taut pale skin.

"Just... just let me know."

"Of course. I promise," Sherlock murmured subsonically, before easing himself up and returning to his spot between John's legs, settling himself back down and smirking. "Shall I continue as I was? Or do you have any special requests?"

John felt his jaw go slightly slack, his feet moving to rest on Sherlock's shoulders almost instinctively. "I don't - I'm not, uh..."

Sherlock hummed appreciatively at the sight of John's damp, pink opening, and seemingly forgetting he was in the middle of a conversation, he pressed his face into John and resumed feasting.

John let out a strangled cry as his hole was suddenly engulfed in slick, hot muscle and he had to fight to keep himself from jumping off the bed. "Jesus!"

Sherlock chuckled and moaned, long and low, in pleasure at his doctor's response. Taking a few seconds to ensure John was soft and wet enough, he pointed and pushed his tongue fully inside, lapping and prodding with some effort.

Having Sherlock's tongue running around his rim was fantastic, but it didn't hold a candle to feeling the wet tongue pressing inside him. Softer than fingers, but no less strong, the sound that left his throat at the intrusion was something akin to a panicked animal - before it was drawn out into a long, guttural moan.

Sherlock decided that it was time to up the ante. He slid one strong hand under John's backside, propping him up slightly, whilst the other reached up and formed a tight fist for him to fuck into, to compound his pleasure.

John threw his face from side to side, his hips rocking up and down, screwing himself on Sherlock's tongue. Then there was a tight pressure around his cock and a tentative thrust told him Sherlock was both anchoring him and lifting him higher.

"Shit, Sherlock...I'm gonna come like this," John wheezed aloud, speaking partly to himself, stunned at the realisation of his words.

The tongue inside him only pressed harder, the hand around his cock giving him a hard pump before holding still. Fighting to regain the bone-deep tingles of pleasure, John groaned and began thrusting into the firm, familiar hand.

Every push forward was a shot of pleasure to his cock, and the recoil had him sitting back on Sherlock's face, more importantly, that _tongue_. It was an overload, and John couldn't stop the symphony of moans that bubbled in his throat. "Oh God, yes, yes, _yes_ , again - yes, fuck me, oh God, like that!"

Sherlock, frowning with exertion and overwhelmed with his own rampant arousal, and that which was simmering in every atom of his doctor's body, clamped his mouth around John's opening, sucking and tonguing for all he was worth.

The final cry from the doctor was so loud, he felt it in his chest, heard it bounce off the walls. It tore up his throat, blinding, as the second orgasm hit him so hard that everything went black. It took long moments for light to flicker in his vision, and John sucked in air as if he had stopped fucking breathing. He couldn't form coherent sentences, never mind stringing sounds together to make words.

He slowly became aware of his numb extremities, his pounding vision. He took a moment to gape at the volume of come spattering his own chest, and then shifted his wobbly gaze to Sherlock, who looked absolutely sick with pleasure. As the detective groaned and sat up, cracking his elbows, John was dumbstruck to see that Sherlock was no longer hard. He was, in fact, coated in his own lukewarm mess, and looked flattened by dizzy exhaustion.

"Diddem - Did..." John swirled his tongue around his mouth, blinking a few times until he tried again. "You came."

"Mmmhhhm," Sherlock hummed, looking down at himself, swaying a little. "...So much come."

John let out a weak chuckle, trying to raise his arm but unable to do so. He let his limb flop onto the sheets and he sighed, his eyes shifting closed. The most he could manage was a deep, languid hum from the back of his throat.

"I made you come. Like you did to me," Sherlock noted, grinning at his doctor. "I have an idea. Do you think you could move sufficiently well after a quick, cool shower?"

John raised an eyebrow, letting his eyes flutter open. "I dunno if I can... move at all."

"I wasn't planning on ravishing you again. Not just yet. I thought, if you could muster the strength to limp into a taxi, we could go to my apartment. It can be our little love-nest," Sherlock said airily, a smile in his eyes, as he lay down.

John couldn't stop a stupid grin from lighting up his features. "I feel like you're going to kill me, you know. Drain me dry."

"You wouldn't be much use to me dead, John," Sherlock shrugged, before wincing at the sharp, angry twinge in his shoulders. "I'm not a necrophiliac."

The burst of laughter was sudden, his senses coming back to him enough to roll onto his side where he could see Sherlock better. "I should bloody hope not."

"I prefer you warm. And able to kiss me. I have to say, this is all going far better than I could have anticipated."

"Oh yeah? What did you anticipate?" he asked lazily, yawning before uncurling his body and sighing as his bones popped and his muscles stretched.

"That I would fail to arouse you. And certainly fail to bring you to climax." Sherlock nudged his body against his doctor's with zero subtlety, sighing against his shoulder.

John shook his head, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and nestling into the crook of his neck. Sherlock smelled like sweat and sex and something sweet. "For a genius, you can be such an idiot."

"So you keep saying. I'll forbid you from saying things like that if you're going to be my boyfriend."

John blinked, gaping for a moment before deciding on silence.

It lasted all of three seconds.

"B- boyfriend?"

"Oh, I...no?...Um...'not,' then?" Sherlock queried awkwardly, and John felt his whole body tense, along with his rumbling deep voice.

John was quick to run a hand over the long expanse of Sherlock's back, even though his mind was fizzing and stuttering at the concept.

"I... uh..."

"It's fine. It's...fine," Sherlock said quickly, scooting off the bed with eye-popping speed, even though he winced when his weight was on his feet. "Shower," he announced, before leaving the room in a blur of wild curls, reddened cheekbones, and a pert white arse.

John sat for a moment, watching Sherlock retreat, close to suffocating under his guilt. What did Sherlock expect, though? This was a lot for him to handle, and he was trying to keep up. He was only just getting used to having a naked and sex-driven Sherlock rutting against him. Swallowing down being a boyfriend and partner and love - well, that was harder.  
And then he imagined the feel of Sherlock's come as it slid down his throat.  
 _For fuck's sake._

He distantly heard the shower turn on, and stood, bracing himself slightly against the bedstead. He was probably getting too old for this kind of thing.

First things first, he had to make it known to his endearingly dense flatmate that he wasn't outright rejecting him.

Then he would have to try and convince him that taking it slow was a good thing.

Lastly, he would have to _not_ give in to those perfectly arched lips when they were drawn into that godforsaken pout which twisted his gut and made him squirm with guilt.

 _Not too fucking difficult then, Watson._

He traipsed as fast as he could (which was still slower than his normal amble) to the bathroom, sighing in relief that the door wasn't locked. He was startled when a soaking wet, towel-wrapped Sherlock sped past him, leaving the shower running.

"Hey, hey, no, no, no," he muttered, leaning over dangerously to put an arm around Sherlock's waist. The speed in which the detective was going had him nearly falling over from it, considering his limbs still felt like jelly. Thankfully Sherlock stopped and John's face landed on his shoulder.

The detective didn't move to support him, just stood very still, not looking at him. "Shower's free. I only needed to wash the...stuff off."

"No. Nope, you're not allowed to do that. You are not allowed to shut down when you had your tongue in my arse about ten minutes ago. So stop, okay? Come back to the shower, right now, and talk to me. Because I want to talk to you."

Sherlock let out a petulant, gusty sigh, blowing his cheeks out, before mewling in discontent as he was dragged back into the bathroom, his towel dropping off in the process.

John didn't release Sherlock's wrist until he was stepping into the shower and had pulled the man in with him, hissing at the hot spray on his back. He slammed the shower door shut with a definite click, wrapping his arms around the detective's damp skin. "Better."

Sherlock pulled an awkward face and lifted his head, gazing intently at the showerhead. "It's okay. You don't have to be my boyfriend. I understand. Well, I don't really, but...you know."

John chattered his teeth as he tried to think of the right words.

"OK, so you need to understand that this is new to me. I had a fling when I was younger but it never meant anything - to him, anyway. This," he said, pulling Sherlock closer to him. "Means something. I don't want to jump the gun. I don't want to label it. Everything is still so new and to be honest, a little terrifying. Be patient with me, alright? I need you to do that for me."

"This is new to me, too. But I still want you to be my partner. We've done everything that that entails, haven't we? What haven't I done?"

"Oh, Sherlock," he said gently, reaching up to cup Sherlock's sharp cheeks. "I am your partner. I was your partner before we started... getting intimate. You haven't done anything wrong, I promise. Give me some time to... adjust."

"Alright. But promise me...you would tell me if you didn't want to be with me. Don't...make me think otherwise. That would destroy me."

John frowned and shook his head, feeling the weight of that sitting heavy on his shoulders. "I wouldn't have given in to you if this was just a passing fancy."

"Good. Because you need to understand that I haven't gone my whole life being emotionless, I have had feelings that have been ruined by others. Feelings that I subsequently cut off as soon as they were born, in order to prevent pain. You are the first person I have trusted with my emotions. I would do anything for you John, and this is the furthest thing from a 'passing fancy' that I know how to describe to you."

John was stunned, for a better way to put it. He actually felt like every word from the detective was being stitched to his insides. Like he'd been giving something priceless and had a hold on the world. It could have been his twice-orgasm brain talking, but John knew this meant more. Sherlock meant more, and he was making sure John knew. Words failed him, as they were often doing the longer he spent in Sherlock's arms, and the only way he could reply was to bring his lips to the detective's and kiss him.

Sherlock finally relaxed his highly-strung body, and kissed John back, sweet, and chaste, and thankful.

The hot water rushed between their bodies, and for a moment, just a moment, John could believe in perfection.

Like most things, though, it didn't last.

"Sherlock, your knee is digging into my dick."


	24. Chapter 24

After the shower, fresh, clean, and a bit chilly from the ambient winter air in the flat, they hastened back to the bedroom before catching sight of the slimy bedspread.

John shot Sherlock a small smirk, before moving to the edge of the bed. "Come and help me change these sheets. You caused the majority of this."

Sherlock spared the wet bed the sort of withering look he saved for the people he considered the absolute, most deplorable kind of imbeciles. He didn't move.

"Sherlock Holmes," said John a little more firmly. "You will help me change this bed or God forbid I will leave you with blue balls for a week."

There was a deep moue of disgruntlement, and Sherlock padded a bit closer, squeamishly plucking at the corners of the bedspread. "Let's just go to my apartment. I'll text my housekeeper and tell her to pop round here." He tried his luck at flattery. "I won't have the man of my dreams resort to common drudgery."

"Well this man of your dreams sounds like he's far too pampered. I, on the other hand, would rather do this now than come home to it. Come on, just unhook the corners and I'll do the bloody rest."

The detective sighed massively, but obeyed, tentatively pulling up the sheet corners, and then standing well back.

John let out a long huff, dragging the sheets to him before wrapping them inside out. He gathered the bundle, walking starkers into the hall. He dropped the sheets in the washing basket before pulling out clean sheets from the cupboard. Moving back into the room, he rolled his eyes as Sherlock just stood there, and within ten minutes there were fresh sheets on the bed. John collapsed onto them with a sigh, his muscles starting to ache in the most delicious way. "You're so unhelpful sometimes," he muttered affectionately.

"If it was absolutely necessary for me to help, I would. But I suspect you're one of those people who quite enjoy matyring themselves. I wouldn't take that away from you."  
The detective lay beside him heavily, groaning obscenely at the sense of clean sheets and a soft bed.

"I'm not a maid," he murmured, but sighed as he felt Sherlock's body lining his left half. "So this apartment - do you go to it often?"

Sherlock had rapidly snuggled himself in what seemed to be his favourite position alongside his doctor. "...Not much. More in the...old days," he said vaguely. "It was given to me when I was young."

John nodded, hooking an arm under Sherlock's neck. "Have you taken anyone else there?"

"Anyone like who, John?" The detective replied evenly, though his curiosity was piqued. He nuzzled his cool, wet curls playfully against John's armpit, making him gasp.

He squirmed away from the contact before chuckling. "You know what I mean."

"You mean lovers? You know I haven't really had any. Any trysts I might have had in the old days would have likely been an unsafe fumble behind a crackhouse somewhere," he said bluntly.

"Oh." Well, Sherlock was nothing if not honest. "Okay then."

"I always sort of hoped that one day, it might be used for a real, human function. Be a place to love and grow, not just suffer through withdrawal in relative luxury. I avoided it for a long while. But it occurred to me that the time might have come to make use of it again."

John smiled faintly, pulling Sherlock a little tighter to his chest. "I think that's a good idea."

"And by 'make use of it,' I mean eat and drink and make love and be merry. We can even use the hot tub, if you absolutely insist. But don't think I won't give you a running commentary on all the pathogenic factors swirling around in there with you."

"Oooh, you make hot tubs sound so sexy," John deadpanned before smirking.

"If you don't want to come and christen my extremely-posh apartment, you only have to say so," Sherlock shrugged, before placing a long, chaste kiss against John's forehead, squeezing him possessively.

"I never said that," John replied, shying around the whole 'christening' idea.

"What would you like to do now, John? More wine and mutual stimulation?" Sherlock asked sweetly, his words hot and damp and quiet against John.

John let out a breathy chuckle. "Jesus Sherlock, I'm not twenty anymore. Are you really telling me you could go again?"

"I'm telling you I'm willing to _try_. Or we could just talk. I have things I want to know about your proclivities, and though a manual examination would be most useful, it isn't mandatory."

John had no idea how the man managed to make a quick grope sound so...scientific.

"I'm pretty shagged out at the moment, so talking sounds good." John ran his lips over Sherlock's cheek before pushing himself up and reaching for his forgotten wine glass.

Sherlock groaned melodramatically and followed him up, wincing as he rolled his shoulders. "You owe me a massage," he said simply, looking pointedly at his doctor.

John took a slow sip, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh I do, do I?"

To be fair, the orgasms that Sherlock just gave him were mind-blowing. And the man had had his tongue in John's arse. He could probably give him a massage for that.

"Go on then, on your front. Do you have any oil or anything?"

"I have some imported Chinese woodlock oil. That should do the trick." Sherlock flung a lazy hand toward the second drawer of his bedside cabinet and proceeded to floomp face-down into the pillow with a lengthy, luxuriant sigh.

John clucked his tongue before putting his glass back on the bedside table, reaching into the drawer and searching through until he came across a small, brown bottle.

"This one?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied without looking. He wiggled his feet impatiently as he sensed John reading the bottle. "It's in Chinese, you won't understand it. Idiot," he added fondly.

John pouted before shifting himself. They were both still naked and slightly damp from the shower, so wiping his hands on the sheets, John then hooked a leg over Sherlock's body and sat just below his tail bone.

"Not too heavy, am I?"

"You were made to sit there, John. In the grand scheme of things, you were designed to perch on my bum. I'm convinced of it," Sherlock chuckled, muffled by the cool pillow.

John chuckled, resisting the urge to bounce for good measure. He put the bottle to the side and spent a moment just running the flat of his hands over Sherlock's back. In his mind's eye, he was drawing through a map of all the muscles, all the tendons, all the spinal discs that made up Sherlock's body. He felt his fingertips moving over muscles, tracing them, learning them. The detective was glorious, in body and mind, and John felt humbled to be the one that could have this. Maybe he wasn't the first, but he was the most wanted. And that meant far more than John ever realised.

Sherlock shivered a little at the sensation of hands on his wounds, but he had always healed quickly, and this was no different. The feeling was one of ticklishness, rather than pain.

"S'lovely," the detective slurred. "You're good."

John smiled faintly, leaning back and sitting on Sherlock's arse. He could see that a few strokes to the man would put him under some kind of relaxed trance. The doctor took the little bottle up again and poured a generous amount into his palm, snapping the lid before rubbing the oil between his hands and warming it up. When he finally put them back to Sherlock's skin, the detective let out a small sigh.

The detective's head rose up slightly, and there was a quick, sweet inhale, before he dropped back down again, a jumble of happy groans and wild curls against the pillow.

John moved his hand over the pale expanse of skin, coating it in oil before he started to add a little pressure to his upper muscles. He was careful not to press of the welts still standing sharp against his flesh, barely brushing over them before using his fingertips to rub circles.

Sherlock eased out a few faint, high-pitched noises, writhing his hips slightly, his fingers twiddling against the pillow. "Mmmmhhh...John...so good," he whispered. "Yet another...first."

John's hand slowed, his mind racing to comprehend that. Sherlock had said that he hadn't had any kind of intimacy with Mr Mystery - Tristan? - but he could hardly believe that no one had done this for the man. John moved his hands again, pressing harder, making new patterns, lavishing attention on certain muscles one at a time. If this was Sherlock's first time having a massage, then John would make sure he enjoyed it.

"I have difficulty trusting another person with my body," Sherlock hummed quietly. "More often than not, human contact is the result of a fight, stemming from a violent case. Nothing pleasant."

John moved his hands in tandem over Sherlock's shoulder blades. "Well there's loads of pleasant ways to be touched, and it doesn't even have to be sexual. I'll show you them all."

"Yes, John...mhh," Sherlock huffed, swallowing loudly. "Oh...God...uh, that's..." He promptly buried his head in the pillow, gripping it tightly with long fingers.

John smiled again, trying not to shift too much on Sherlock's arse. Those sounds were obscene, even still, and if he were a younger man he would probably be hard again. As it was, he really didn't think he could go again. Sherlock, on the other hand, sounded like he was already halfway there.

"Do you like that?" he asked smoothly, running down Sherlock's spine tenderly.

"…Incredible, John. When I can feel my limbs again, I'm going to snog you silly."

John smirked and continued rolling his hands over Sherlock's shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the knots he could feel there, working them free with hard strokes.

"...If I told you that you had an astonishing penis, would you hold it against me?" Sherlock asked, before succumbing to a snuffling laugh.

John couldn't stop a small bark of laughter. "You go ahead. It's nice to know that my dick pleases you."

"It's gorgeous. I want it inside me as soon as possible. But I'm also very happy to accede to your unspoken wish to be penetrated."

John's hands stilled on Sherlock's glistening skin, and he gave the back of the detective's head a confused look.

"What?"

"It's patently obvious that you're afraid to ask for it. Or too proud. You enjoy the sensation of fingers and tongue, but you fear being penetrated by another man, though whether out of anxiety of pain, or emasculation, I don't know."

John spluttered for a few seconds, swallowing thickly as he tried to come up with a response.

"I'm not... afraid. Or too proud. Not for the reasons you think."

"So you admit that for our first time, you want me to top?"

John used his fingers as a distraction, moving to the base of Sherlock's spine and kneading gently.

"I think so. But like I said before..."

"No. Look." Sherlock said simply, swatting John's hands away briefly and twisting over to lie on his slippery back, staring up at John, before gesturing at his own enthusiastic semi. "It'd be so easy. Right now. Slide onto my lap, as slow as you need...as slow as you like...and just..." He let out a hungry moan and tried to ease his doctor closer, pulling at his shoulders.

John was still on his knees, now looking down at the lovely expanse of Sherlock's chest. God, the man was fucking delicious and dirty and Christ, already so eager to have John ride him. A flush crept up his neck, and he put his hands over Sherlock's as the detective tried to bring him closer.

"Sherlock..."

The detective's cupid's-bow lips parted invitingly as he began to pant, his skin visibly reddening with heated excitement, his semi quickly swelling into serviceable rigidity. "Yes, _yes_ , now, _please_..."

John let out a frustrated groan, knowing that he wouldn't be able to ride the other. He couldn't. It was just so... fast.

"Sherlock," he tried, his voice breaking before he cleared his throat. "You agreed to wait."

"For God's sake, John! I did wait! Have sex with me!" Sherlock yelled, pulling him closer and growling out his own frustration.

John let out an undignified huff as he was yanked onto Sherlock's chest, feeling the detective's erection pressing in to his groin.

"God, Sherlock," he mumbled, trying to push himself up on Sherlock's chest but slipping due to the oil still coating his fingers. "You're an impatient brat sometimes."

"Yes...oh, _yes_ ," Sherlock keened, wild-eyed, sensing victory was in sight. He grabbed his own cock and nudged it experimentally against John, almost bruising his skin as he pushed harder, beginning to try and slide it between John's legs.

"Sherlock!" he snapped, pushing himself up on the sheets and sliding off the man completely. "I'm not ready yet," he said forcefully, crossing his arms and watching as Sherlock's bright eyes seemed to darken, and an impressive pout clouding his face. "I've never done this. I want to wait."

"Well then fuck _me_! Or are you going to try and tell me you've never done _that_ either?" Sherlock spat, baffled and furious at once.

"No, I haven't!" he shouted back, drawing his head in surprise. "I haven't."

"Well you've got more experience sticking your penis into people than I have," Sherlock huffed, actually folding his arms to petulantly match his doctor's stance.

"Really?" he said, his tone aggravated and annoyed. "You're going with that, are you? Well it's a bit different sticking it to a woman than a man's arse, so give me some goddamn time to adjust."

"...You really don't want to, do you?" Sherlock asked, very quietly, and very carefully.

John let out a rush of air, deflating. "You know that's not true. I just... I don't want to hurt you, or do it wrong. You've never... done it before, and I want us to be comfortable. I want it to be right."

"So, what whimsical alignment of the stars do you require in order to know 'when the time is right?' Or are you going to just inform me the morning that your tea leaves are propitious?"

"Don't be a dick, Sherlock," John huffed, turning on his heel. If Sherlock wanted to sulk, then he could bloody well do it on his own. He was going to make a cup of tea and just... stew in his own bad mood.

"John?" came the hesitant, uncertain voice behind him. Then –

"JOHN!" A far more indignant tone.

He didn't have to fight hard to resist the urge to pay attention.


	25. Chapter 25

The doctor padded naked into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle before moving to the fridge. He dug around their meagre supplies before remembering all the leftover food from a little while earlier.

He told himself that he really deserved another glass of wine too, just for the crap that he had to put up with from his...flatmate. He poured a large one, and sank down onto the sofa, naked, and feeling a bit chilly. Certainly a novel experience.

He could hear the loud bangs and small grumbles from the other room. Taking a long pull from the drink, he turned back to the small plate of noodles and stabbed at them with a soft huff.

Damned if they didn't taste amazing. Almost worth (apparently) having the Triad in your contact list. He flinched and frowned at the slam of a drawer, and then the faint, but shockingly recognisable sound of buzzing in the otherwise silent flat.

John found himself sitting up, intrigued despite himself. He put the plate on the table and listened intently, biting the inside of his lip as he heard the faint rustling of sheets.

John cursed himself as he got to his feet, moving slowly down the corridor. Well of course he had to see, didn't he? How could he bloody not, when Sherlock was so fucking _loud_ and obscene and _tempting_.

He didn't bother to knock, or even fully open the door, just pushed it with the knuckles of the hand that held his wine glass and sauntered in. He nearly choked on his breath when he saw the beautifully-brutal sight on the bed before him.

Sherlock, all pale limbs and flexing muscles, was spread-eagled on the bed. He had one hand bracing himself on the mattress, and the other reached around, steadily pressing a bright purple toy in and out of his arse.

John stared, he had never seen anything quite so wanton, except in poorly-produced porn. The grimace of concentration and intense pleasure on Sherlock's pink-sheened face, however, was gloriously, sinfully genuine. The slight, constant buzz of the toy seemed humorously inadequate compared to its apparent power, at least according to the pained expression his flatmate wore.

John let out a long rush of breath, enraptured by the sight. Sherlock pressed the toy deeper, the buzzing slightly muffled as the detective keened, his brows knotting together in pleasured focus.

" _Shit_ ," came the detective's hoarse curse, as his lube-slicked, glossy fingers slipped on the toy and it began to slide out of him.

John took a step forward before he could help himself, only stopping as Sherlock's slick fingers caught the toy again. He didn't even know if Sherlock knew he was there or not, especially as another crescendo of moans tumbled from those plump lips.

He couldn't help but gape, and that word joined dozens of others in his head, filthy, succulent adjectives that described Sherlock in his gorgeous desperation. The detective scrabbled and panted as he awkwardly held the base of the toy, tilting it roughly and prodding at different angles, fighting to find the perfect one.

John had moved closer to the bed, biting his lower lip as he saw that tight hole glistening with lube, stretching to accommodate the toy. He could almost feel it under his tongue again and a groan left his lips before he could stop himself.

Sherlock paused at the noise, and John wondered at it, before he noticed that the gasping brunette was taking a breather, because of course, he was trying to chase an orgasm that was not his first of the night, and therefore all the more sweetly elusive.

John wanted to taste him. He wanted to use that toy until the man screamed. He wanted to be the one to bring the man to orgasm. Swallowing thickly, John moved around the bed so that Sherlock would see him when he opened his eyes.

"Want some help?" he asked, his voice rough.

Sherlock grunted wetly into the pillow, turning his face completely to the side so that he could gasp in a few much-needed sticky breaths. It seemed an eternity before John picked up the brief affirmative nod that he was waiting for.

A small thrill ran up his spine before he licked his lips, moving forward to kneel up and onto the bed. Their minor spat caused him some hesitation, but John still reached out to run the flat of his palm over Sherlock's hip, down his arm, to knead his arse cheek and study with wide eyes the way that purple toy quivered in his hole.

Boldly, he took hold of the body-heated toy, pulling the slippery base and watching it vacate Sherlock's body. He bit his lip hard when it was free, and he watched the detective's sensitive, moist hole twitch reactively. With helpless curiosity, he placed his finger against the opening, and thrilled when the flesh responded in a damp kiss around his digit.

John took in a slow, shuddering breath, feeling the hips shift sensually under his touch. The toy vibrated idly in his other hand and he spared it a glance. It was... fairly big. Very sticky. Very neon. John would have chuckled if he wasn't so mesmerised by the muscle still clenching greedily around his finger, and he knew Sherlock wouldn't tolerate this pause in his pleasure for long.

Needless to say, an impatient grumbly noise soon accompanied an inviting, shameless push of Sherlock's hips. "Deep. Fast." came the hoarse instruction.

John felt a small smirk tug at his lips, but he was too busy complying with Sherlock's demands. Moving himself to kneel at Sherlock's risen backside, he took a steadying breath before pushing the vibrator back into Sherlock's waiting body. It was incredible to watch the needy little hole suck it up.

"God, John!" Sherlock uttered loudly, keening out a furious whine of pleasure into the damp pillow. He took hold of himself in one hand, easing the skin of his cock repeatedly, comfortingly.

"Jesus," John muttered, leaning his head around to watch Sherlock's body contort and writhe under the soft vibrations. He moved the toy at the base in small circles, eyes focused on Sherlock's, watching to see when he hit that tender little gland.

He was enthralled when Sherlock's hand left his own prick, trailing a little clear liquid, and was even more stunned when the same hand snaked back to take hold of his own, gently guiding him.

There was heat prickling down his neck as he watched the slim, pale hand flex, moving the toy and teaching John at the same time. After everything they had done, this felt the most intimate. It was... strange, but nice.

"Yes...John...can you...a bit...just..." Sherlock's hand offered nothing new at the same time that his guttural voice pleaded, just repeatedly easing him gently in the direction of his prostate, not quite touching it yet.

John edged himself closer, bracing his other hand on the curve of Sherlock's waist. It was hard to feel the movements of the toy because of the vibrations, but he let himself be guided until Sherlock's hand came to a stop. Guessing he was close to his prostate, John rolled the vibrator, hoping to graze it ever so slightly.

"God... _God_...John, mm...just..." It was clear from Sherlock's rippling, jerking, wonderful responses that his prostate was being tenderly tortured, but it seemed that the detective had something else in mind that wasn't easily transcribed into words.

"Just what?" John rumbled, wanting to know exactly how to pleasure the other.

He pressed a little harder with the toy into the detective, moving his other hand between his legs. He cradled Sherlock's balls, tugging gently, before letting his fingers dip to his perineum, running small circles with his index finger while he mimicked the movement from the inside with the toy.

There followed a long, languorous groan that might have made John grin if it hadn't been so hypnotisingly, crushingly attractive.

"S'good," Sherlock muttered, panting. "But...could you...mount me, like you're..."

The detective didn't say any more, his face reddened with a rosy palette of arousal and self-consciousness, but John could guess the rest.

 _Like you're fucking me_.

The sound that came out of his throat was almost a moan, a rush of heat spreading down his limbs. John didn't know whether it was the idea of being fucked, or being fucked specifically by him that turned Sherlock on, but it was certainly a heady feeling nonetheless.

John scooted himself further up the bed until the front of his thighs brushed against the back of the detective's. He ran his other hand down Sherlock's spine, adjusting his grip on the toy, holding it with his palm from the side. He kept his body close but his hips back so that he had room to pull the toy in and out in motions which he hoped mimicked a thrust.

"Yes, _yes_! Yes, like that...Oh...Christ, John...I..." Sherlock reached behind him with one trembly hand, taking hold of his flatmate's hips and helping him to rock forward.

There was a tightening in his gut and John let out a long breath, keeping enough space between their hips so that he could pull and push the toy slowly into Sherlock's body. Feeling particularly bold, John moved his hand down Sherlock's spine - the skin was still slick with the oily residue - before leaning down to press a kiss to the dip in the detective's back.

Sherlock swallowed loudly, breathing hard, rocking with the motion. Eyes closed, mouth open and gasping, he nodded vaguely, moaning softly. "John," he whispered deliriously, over and over. "Fuck me...yes... _yes_ , inside me...oh, fuck..."

John felt a little knot of guilt in the back of his throat, that he wasn't actually giving this pleasure to Sherlock. That he wasn't fucking him like he wanted to be, but, it just... wasn't that easy. Tightening his grip of the toy, John continued to press fluttering kisses over his back, speeding his movements as if he were thrusting harder into the man.

"...John...do it...I...oh...turn me over," came the abrupt, breathless demand, Sherlock tightening his grip on John exponentially.

John had to take a moment, resting his lips on Sherlock's skin, his heart hammering against his ribs before he pulled back. He eased the toy out gently, hearing Sherlock gasp at the loss of contact before ushering the man onto his back.

Seeing Sherlock all sweaty and desperate did something funny to his insides, and before he could think too much of it, John leaned down and pressed his lips messily as he scrambled for the toy, using his finger for guidance before pressing the warm rubber back into the man.

"John...I want it," Sherlock moaned, his face contorted with painful ecstasy, looking down at where John was penetrating him with safe, sure hands.

"I know," he whispered, pulling the toy out and thrusting it back in with a little more force. "Does it feel good?"

"...Brand new. Amazing," Sherlock sighed, looking blissfully-dazed. "You will do this? For real? Soon?" Grey-green eyes implored him with blinding intensity.

John let out a strangled noise, his hand on the toy faltering. Sherlock's gaze was endless, wanting, needy; God, could he ever deny the man anything?

"Yes," he whispered gently, shifting himself between Sherlock's legs and resuming the steady pumping with his hand. "Soon."

The detective knuckled his own wet curls from his forehead, before grabbing John with two hands, rummaging through his short hair, caressing his face with jerky tenderness, and squeezing his biceps.

John took a few deep breaths, resting his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder, briefly imagining what it would feel like to be buried deep in the man. How tight he would be. How hot, how slick.

"John, make love to me. Make love to me," Sherlock chanted, closing his pale eyes to better bear out his pleasure.

John spread his thighs, giving himself more room to brace and keep his hips far enough away so that he could thrust the toy in and out of the man. Sherlock held him so tight he could almost believe they were really doing it. Really... making love. He groaned, moving his face to the crook of Sherlock's neck.

"Yes... so gorgeous," he muttered. "Beautiful..." John twisted the toy, angling it, searching for the other's prostate.

He startled when Sherlock flinched, but he then relaxed, and smiled, when the detective undulated his hips and began a litany of loud, grateful noises, sighing through his nose, rumbling in his throat and panting through his plump, cupid's-bow lips.

John moved to wrap an arm under Sherlock's neck, holding him closer, watching his features as he pleasured the man with gradually increasing pumps, his fingers feeling numb from the vibrations.

"Close...close...kiss," Sherlock muttered, holding John as tight as he could, his breathing hitching sharply as he teetered at the edge of his climax, trembling all over.

John moved back down, pressing his lips roughly against Sherlock's, sucking his lower lip and then his upper, moving his wrist in tandem with his kisses. He moved the toy faster, careful not to ram the man with it.

"Come for me," he whispered against Sherlock's lips, following the words with a swift lick over the plump flesh.

Sherlock fought to acquiesce, grunting and groaning as he struggled to edge over the peak. He spread his legs further, forcing himself onto his toy, and John watched, rapt, as his jaw fell open, his eyes squeezed shut, and he sobbed through the tantalisingly-slow apex of his climax, writhing hard.

He held onto the man, afraid that if he moved even a little it would ruin the perfectly-drawn features or the way Sherlock's lips pouted as he huffed a strangled breath.

"Oh...John...wonderful...love you...God," Sherlock babbled, and John hardly knew how to feel, let alone how to try and prevent his detective from continuing to expound his feelings through his aftershocks.

He tried to find his voice, even though he was unsure what to say, letting the man ride out the last few jerking spasms before he slowly withdrew the toy. He moved his face into Sherlock's neck, shamefully taking advantage of the soft, intimate detective still panting his name.

"Yes...beautiful...so good," Sherlock whispered, finally quietening, spending his oxygen on recovery instead of dizzying words.

John scrambled with slick fingers to turn off the damn toy, letting out a small sigh when he managed it. He put it somewhere on the bed and moved his other arm around to hold the man against him.

"Ruined the clean sheets," he grumbled playfully after a few minutes of heavy silence.

"That's the price of...a fantastic orgasm," Sherlock huffed, grinning happily and hugging John affectionately. "Let's keep doing this. All of it," he murmured distantly, still buzzing from his high, revelling in his throbbing aftershocks and heady pleasure.

John smiled gently against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Wasn't that the plan?"

"No more of that...other stuff," Sherlock said vaguely, nodding.

John raised an eyebrow, pulling back to look into Sherlock's face.

"The arguing? Or the prostitutes?"

"Yes, that too. I was thinking of your women, though."

"I don't have any women."

"Not any more. That is..." Sherlock paused, cautiously. "...I would like it if we were exclusive. If that's possible."

John felt a small flutter of panic, not because the idea of not having sex with women any more riled him, but because it was edging back to the 'boyfriend' talk again. Still, he felt like there was more to explore with Sherlock, more to understand. With a nervous huff, John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's jaw.

"Okay."

"You're not blowing me away with your confidence, John," Sherlock chortled quietly, preening at the welcomed kiss.

John chuckled, shaking his head a little.

"Sherlock Holmes, I will refrain from pursuing any other person as of this moment. Better?"

Sherlock grinned. "John Watson, that is a good start."

XXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXX


End file.
